11 


SABBATH  BELLS 


CHIMED    BY    THE    POETS. 


JM.M  MM,IL  mi    M  MMMjh 


'  The   curfew  tolls  the  knell  uf  parting-  day" 


FWBlIiMES  BTE»M=BW^iSm  a  C? 


SABBATH   BELLS 


CHIMED 


I  i\i  f  Otis. 


"Sundavs  observe:  think  when  the  Bells  do  chima. 
'Bs  Angels'  music.''— George  Herbeii*. 


ELEGANTLY  ILLUSTRATED. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

PUBLISHED  BY  E.  H.  BUTLER  &  CO. 

1864. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 

E.  H.  BUTLER  &  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  OfSce  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


A. 

?l 

13 


Contents. 


The  Sabbath, Geahame, 

Sunday, Hebbekt, 

Sabbath  Morning, Sigournet,    . 

A  Spring  Sabbath  Walk,      .     .     ,  Gkahame, 

The  House  of  God, Bp.  Mant,     . 

English  Churches, L.  E.  Landon, 

'Tis  stveet  to  hear  a  Brook,     .     .  Coleridge,    . 

A  Churchyard  Scene,       ....  John  Wilson, 

A  Summer  Sabbath  Walk,     .     .     .  Gbahame, 

The  Village  Church,  .     .  Rogers,    .     . 

The  Sabbath, Wm.  Howitt, 

Sunday  Walks, Clare,      .     . 

The  Sabbath, Sir  E.  B.  Lytton, 

The  Sabbath, Cunningham, 

The  Churchyard, Miss  Bowles, 

The  Village  Church, Bp.  Mant, 

They  pursue  the  Pebbly  Walk,     .  Hood,  ,     .     . 

The  Church  Bells, Bp.  Mant,     . 


PAGE 

.  17 

.  20 

.  23 

.  24 

.  25 

.  26 

.  28 

.  28 

.  31 

.  33 

.  33 

.  35 

.  42 

.  43 

.  45 

.  48 

.  49 

.  50 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

PAQB 

An  Autumn  Sabbath  Walk,  .     .     .  Grahame,      ....  51 

Sabbath  Days, Barton, 52 

How  SOFT  THE  MUSIC,  ETC.,       .       .       .  COWPER, 54 

The  Bell, Southet,       ....  54 

The  Village  Church, Anon., 55 

The  Day  of  Rest, Grinfield,    ....  57 

The  Hour  of  Prayer, Hemans, 60 

Prayer, Bp.  Mant,      ....  62 

A  Gleam  of  Sunshine, Longfellow,      ...  63 

The  Sabbath  Bell, Anon., 66 

Sunday,       Hart.  Coleridge,  .     .  68 

Sunday, Clare, 69 

The  Voice  of  Prayer, Anon., 73 

The  Lord's  Day Bp.  Manx,      ....  75 

There  is  a  Tongue  in  every  Leaf,  Anon., 76 

A  Sunday  Thought, Anon., 77 

A  Domestic  Scene, Hemans, 78 

The  Sabbath  Bells, Charles  Lamb,       .     .  79 

The  Sabbath  on  the  Seas,    .     .     .  Godwin, 80 

The  Sabbath  Eve, Anon., 82 

The  Sailor's  Evening  Prayer,       .  Anon., 84 

The  First  Sabbath, Grahame,      ....  85 

A  Winter  Sabbath  Walk,     .     .     .  Grahame,      ....  88 

The  Night  was  Winter,    ....  Cowper, 90 

Early  Rising  and  Prayer,    .     .     .  Vaughan,      ....  92 

The  Sabbath, Grahame,      ....  94 

The  Beauties  of  Nature,      .     .     .  Barton, 95 


CONTENTS.  XY 

PAGE 

The  Covenanters'  Sabbath  .     .     .  Weir, 97 

A  Sabbath  Meditation,    ....  Leyden, 101 

Sabbath  Evening, Edmeston,  ....  102 

Sabbath  Walks, Clare, 104 

How  Sweet  the  tuneful  Bell,  .     .  Bowles,       .  •   .     .     .  105 

Of  all  the  murderous  Trades,      .  Grahame,    ....  106 

Sundays Vaughan,    ....  107 

The  Sabbath, East, 108 

An  Evening  Hymn, Thomas  Miller,  .     .  109 

The  Time  for  Prater,       ....  Anon., 113 

Social  Worship, Bp.  Mant,    ....  114 

The  Curfew  Bell, Longfellow,    .     .     .  115 

The  Sabbath, Da  Costa,    ....  117 

Evening  Prater, Hemans,       ....  118 

The  Night-Watchman's  Song,    .     .  Anon. 120 

Church  Music, Herbert,     ....  124 

A  Place  for  Social  Prayer,     .     .  Oowper, 125 

Praise, Herbert,    ....  127 


SABBATH  BELLS. 


THE    SABBATH. 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day ! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labor,  hushed 
The  plough-boy's  whistle,  and  the  milk-maid's  song. 
The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 
That  yester-morn  bloomed  waving  in  the  breeze. 
Sounds  the  most  faint  attract  the  ear, — the  hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew, 
The  distant  bleating  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  sits  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 
To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas. 
The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song ;  the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-worn  glen  ; 
3  (17) 


18  THE    SABBATH. 

While  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 
O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard,  at  intervals, 
The  voice  of  psalms — the  simple  song  of  praise. 

With  dove-like  wings,  Peace  o'er  yon  village  broods : 
The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests ;  the  anvil's  din 
Hath  ceased ;  all,  all  around  is  quietness. 
Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 
Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man. 
Her  deadliest  foe.     The  toil-worn  horse,  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large  ; 
And,  as  his  stiff  unwieldy  bulk  he  rolls, 
His  iron-armed  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 

But  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 
Hail,  Sabbath  !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day. 
On  other  days  the  man  of  toil  is  doomed 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread,  lonely;  the  ground 
Both  seat  and  board ;  screened  from  the  winter's  cold, 
And  summer's  heat,  by  neighboring  hedge  or  tree ; 
But  on  this  day,  embosomed  in  his  home, 
He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves ; 
With  those  he  loves  he  shares  the  heartfelt  joy 
Of  giving  thanks  to  God, — not  thanks  of  form, 


THE    SABBATH.  19 

A  word  and  a  grimace,  but  reverently, 
With  covered  face  and  upward  earnest  eye. 

Hail,  Sabbath  !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day  : 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
The  morning  air,  pure  from  the  city's  smoke  ; 
While,  wandering  slowly  up  the  river  side. 
He  meditates  on  Htm,  whose  power  he  marks 
In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bough, 
As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Around  its  roots ;  and  while  he  thus  surveys. 
With  elevated  joy,  each  rural  charm, 
He  hopes,  yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope, 
That  Heaven  may  be  one  Sabbath  without  end. 

But  now  his  steps  a  welcome  sound  recalls : 
Solemn  the  knell,  from  yonder  ancient  pile, 
Fills  all  the  air,  inspiring  joyful  awe  : 
Slowly  the  throng  moves  o'er  the  tomb-paved  ground  : 
The  aged  man,  the  bowed  down,  the  blind 
Led  by  the  thoughtless  boy,  and  he  who  breathes 
With    pain,    and     eyes    the    new-made    grave    well 
pleased ; 


20  SUNDAY. 

These,  mingled  with  the  young,  the  gay,  approach 

The  house  of  God ;  these,  spite  of  all  their  ills, 

A  glow  of  gladness  feel ;  with  silent  praise 

They  enter  in. 

Grahame 


SUNDAY. 

Oh  day  most  calm,  most  bright. 
The  fruit  of  this,  the  next  world's  bud. 
The  indorsement  of  supreme  delight, 
Writ  by  a  Friend,  and  with  His  blood ; 
The  couch  of  time  ;  care's  balm  and  bay ; 
The  week  were  dark,  but  for  thy  light : 

Thy  torch  doth  show  the  way. 

The  other  days  and  thou 
Make  up  one  man ;  whose  face  thou  art, 
Knocking  at  heaven  with  thy  brow : 
The  working  days  are  the  back  part ; 
The  burden  of  the  week  lies  there, 
Making  the  whole  to  stoop  and  bow. 

Till  thy  release  appear. 


SUNDAY.  21 

Man  had  straight  forward  gone 
To  endless  death ;  but  thou  dost  pull 
And  turn  us  round  to  look  on  One, 
Whom,  if  we  were  not  very  dull, 
We  could  not  choose  but  look  on  still ; 
Since  there  is  no  place  so  alone, 

The  which  He  doth  not  fill. 

Sundays  the  pillars  are, 
On  which  Heaven's  palace  arched  lies : 
The  other  days  fill  up  the  spare 
And  hollow  room  with  vanities. 
They  are  the  fruitful  beds  and  borders 
In  God's  rich  garden :  that  is  bare 

Which  parts  their  ranks  and  orders. 

The  Sundays  of  man's  life, 
Thredded  together  on  time's  string. 
Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife 
Of  the  eternal  glorious  King. 
On  Sunday  Heaven's  gate  stands  ope ; 
Blessings  are  plentiful  and  rife. 

More  plentiful  than  hope  ! 


22  SUNDAY. 

This  day  my  Saviour  rose, 
And  did  enclose  this  light  for  his :    . 
That,  as  each  beast  his  manger  knows, 
Man  might  not  of  his  fodder  miss. 
Christ  hath  took  in  this  piece  of  ground, 
And  made  a  garden  there  for  those 

Who  want  herbs  for  their  wound. 

The  rest  of  our  creation 
Our  great  Redeemer  did  remove 
With  the  same  shake,  which  at  his  passion, 
Did  the  earth  and  all  things  with  it  move. 
As  Samson  bore  the  doors  away, 
Christ's  hands,  though  nailed,  wrought  our  salvation, 

And  did  unhinge  that  day. 

The  brightness  of  that  day 
We  sullied  by  our  foul  offence : 
Wherefore  that  robe  we  cast  away. 
Having  a  new  at  his  expense  : 
Whose  drops  of  blood  paid  the  full  price, 
That  was  required  to  make  us  gay. 

And  fit  for  paradise. 


SABBATH     MORNING.  23 

Thou  art  a  day  of  mirth  : 
And  where  the  week-days  trail  on  ground, 
Thy  flight  is  higher,  as  thy  birth  : 
0  let  me  take  thee  at  the  bound, 
Leaping  with  thee  from  seven  to  seven, 
Till  that  we  both,  being  tossed  from  earth, 

Fly  hand  in  hand  to  Heaven ! 

George  Herbert. 


SABBATH  MORNING. 

How  beautiful  the  Sunday  morn,  amid 

The  quietude  of  nature  !     Spreading  trees 

And  the  simplicity  of  rural  life 

Best  harmonize  with  its  divine  intent ; 

And  more  than  pompous  cities,  or  the  throngs 

That  flow  unceasing  through  their  crowded  streets. 

Welcome  its  silent  spirit.     Here,  and  there, 

A  rustic  household,  toward  the  village  church 

Wind   through   green   lanes,  where   still    the  dewy 

grass 
Reserves  its  diamonds  for  them.     Happy  sire. 
And  peaceful  grandsire,  with  his  hoary  hair. 


24  A    SPRING    SABBATH    WALK. 

And  joyous  children,  their  fresh  ruddy  brows 
Composed  to  serious  thought,  and  even  the  babe 
In  its  young  innocence,  a  wondering  guest, 
Wend  forth,  in  blessed  company,  to  pay 
Their  vows  to  Him,  who  heeds  "  the  pure  in  heart." 

SiGOURNET. 


A   SPRING  SABBATH  WALK. 

Oh  how  I  love,  with  melted  soul,  to  leave 
The  house  of  prayer,  and  wander  in  the  fields 
Alone  !  What  though  the  opening  spring  be  chill ! 
Although  the  lark,  checked  in  his  airy  path, 
Eke  out  his  song,  perched  on  the  fallow  clod, 
That  still  o'ertops  the  blade !     Although  no  branch 
Have  spread  its  foliage,  save  the  willow  wand, 
That  dips  its  pale  leaves  in  the  swollen  stream ! 
What  though  the  clouds  oft  lower  !     Their  threats  but 

end 
In  sunny  showers,  that  scarcely  fill  the  folds 
Of  moss-couched  violet,  or  interrupt 
The  merle's  dulcet  pipe, — melodious  bird  ! 
He,  hid  behind  the  milk-white  sloe-thorn  spray, 


THEHOUSEOFGOD.  25 

(Whose  early  flowers  anticipate  the  leaf,) 
Welcomes  the  time  of  buds,  the  infant  year. 

Sweet  is  the  sunny  nook,  to  which  my  steps 
Have  brought  me,  hardly  conscious  where  I  roamed, 
Unheeding  where, — so  lovely  all  around, 
The  works  of  God,  arrayed  in  vernal  smile. 

Oft  at  this  season,  musing,  I  prolong 

My  devious  range,  till,  sunk  from  view,  the  sun 

Emblaze,  with  upward-slanting  ray,  the  breast 

And  wing  unquivering  of  the  wheeling  lark, 

Descending,  vocal,  from  her  latest  flight ; 

While,  disregardful  of  yon  lonely  star, — 

The  harbinger  of  chill  night's  glittering  host, — 

Sweet  Red-breast,  Scotia's  Philomela,  chants, 

In  desultory  strains,  his  evening  hymn. 

Gkahame. 


THE   HOUSE   OF  GOD. 

It  is  the  Sabbath  bell,  which  calls  to  prayer, 
Even  to  the  House  of  God,  the  hallowed  dome, 
Where  He  who  claims  it  bids  His  people  come 

To  bow  before  His  throne,  and  serve  Him  there 

4 


26  ENGLISH    CHURCHES. 

With  prayers,  and  thanks,  and  praises.     Some  there 
are 

Who  hold  it  meet  to  linger  now  at  home, 

And  some  o'er  fields  and  the  wide  hills  to  roam, 
And  worship  in  the  temple  of  the  air  ! 
For  me,  not  heedless  of  the  lone  address. 

Nor  slack  to  greet  my  Maker  on  the  height, 
By  wood,  or  living  stream ;  yet  not  the  less 

Seek  I  His  presence  in  each  social  rite 
Of  His  own  temple  :  that  He  deigns  to  bless, 

There  still  he  dwells,  and  there  is  His  delight. 

Bp.  Mant. 


ENGLISH   CHURCHES, 

How  beautiful  they  stand, 
Those  ancient  altars  of  our  native  land  ! 
Amid  the  pasture  fields  and  dark  green  woods, 
Amid  the  mountain's  cloudy  solitudes  ; 
By  rivers  broad  that  rush  into  the  sea ; 

By  little  brooks  that,  with  a  lapsing  sound. 
Like  playful  children,  run  by  copse  and  lea ! 

Each  in  its  little  plot  of  holy  ground, 
How  beautiful  they  stand. 
Those  old  gray  churches  of  our  native  land ! 


ENGLISH    CnURCHES.  27 

Our  lives  are  all  turmoil ; 
Our  souls  are  in  a  weary  strife  and  toil, 
Grasping  and  straining — tasking  nerve  and  brain, 
Both  day  and  night,  for  gain  ! 
We  have  grown  worldly — have  made  gold  our  god — 

Have  turned  our  hearts  away  from  lowly  things ; 
We  seek  not  now  the  wild  flower  on  the  sod ; 

We  seek  not  snowy-folded  angel's  wings 
Amid  the  summer  skies — 
For  visions  come  not  to  polluted  eyes ! 

Yet,  blessed  quiet  fanes  ! 
Still  piety,  still  poetry  remains, 
And  shall  remain,  whilst  ever  on  the  air 
One  chapel-bell  calls  high  and  low  to  prayer, — 
Whilst  ever  green  and  sunny  churchyards  keep 

The  dust  of  our  beloved,  and  tears  are  shed 
From  founts  which  in  the  human  heart  lie  deep ! 

Something  in  these  aspiring  days  we  need, 
To  keep  our  spirits  lowly, 
To  set  within  our  hearts  sweet  thoughts  and  holy ! 

And  'tis  for  this  they  stand. 
The  old  gray  churches  of  our  native  land ! 


28  A    CHURCHYARD    SCENE. 

And  even  in  the  gold-corrupted  mart, 

In  the  great  city's  heart, 

They  stand ;  and  chantry  dim,  and  organ  sound, 

And  stated  services  of  prayer  and  praise, 
Like  to  the  righteous  ten  which  were  not  found 

For  the  polluted  city,  shall  upraise. 
Meek  faith  and  love  sincere — 
Better  in  time  of  need  than  shield  and  spear ! 

L.  E.  Landon. 


*T*  *»*  ^  ^ 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  a  brook,  'tis  sweet 

To  hear  the  Sabbath-bell, 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  them  both  at  once. 

Deep  in  a  woody  dell. 


COLEKIDGE. 


A.    CHURCHYAKD    SCENE. 

How  sweet  and  solemn,  all  alone, 
With  revered  step,  from  stone  to  stone, 
In  a  small  village  churchyard  lying, 
O'er  intervening  flowers  to  move — 


A    CHURCHYARD    SCENE.  29 

And  as  we  read  the  names  unknown, 

Of  young  and  old,  to  judgment  gone, 

And  hear,  in  the  calm  air  above, 

Time  onward,  softly  flying, 

To  meditate,  in  Christian  love, 

Upon  the  dead  and  dying  ! 

Across  the  silence,  seem  to  go 

With  dream-like  motion,  wavery,  slow. 

And  shrouded  in  their  folds  of  snow. 

The  friends  we  loved  long,  long  ago ! 

Gliding  across  the  sad  retreat, 

How  beautiful  their  phantom  feet ! 

What  tenderness  is  in  their  eyes, 

Turned  where  the  poor  survivor  lies, 

'Mid  monitory  sanctities ! 

What  years  of  vanished  joy  are  fanned 

From  one  uplifting  of  that  hand 

In  its  white  stillness !     When  the  shade 

Doth  glimmeringly  in  sunshine  fade 

From  our  embrace,  how  dim  appears 

This  world's  life,  thi-ough  a  mist  of  tears ! 

Vain  hopes  !  Wild  sorrows  !  Needless  fears ! 

Such  is  the  scene  around  ine  now : 

A  little  churchyard,  on  the  brow 


30     ,  A    CHURCHYARD    SCENE. 

Of  a  green  pastoral  hill : 

Its  sylvan  village  sleeps  below, 

And  faintly,  here,  is  heard  the  flow 

Of  Woodburn's  summer  rill ; 

A  place  where  all  things  mournful  meet, 

And  yet,  the  sweetest  of  the  sweet ! — 

The  stillest  of  the  still ! 

With  what  a  pensive  beauty  fall, 

Across  the  mossy,  mouldering  wall 

That  rose-tree's  clustered  arches  !     See 

The  robin-redbreast,  warily. 

Bright  through  the  blossoms  leaves  his  nest : 

Sweet  ingrate  !  through  the  winter  blest 

At  the  firesides  of  men — but  shy 

Through  all  the  sunny,  summer  hours — 

He  hides  himself  among  the  flowers 

In  his  own  wild  festivity. 

What  lulling  sound,  and  shadow  cool. 

Hangs  half  the  darkened  churchyard  o'er, 

From  thy  green  depth,  so  beautiful. 

Thou  gorgeous  sycamore ! 

Oft  hath  the  lonely  wine  and  bread 

Been  blessed  beneath  thy  murmuring  tent, 

Where  many  a  bright  and  hoary  head 


A    SUMMER    SABBATH    WALK.  31 

Bowed  at  the  awful  sacrament. 

Now  all  beneath  the  turf  are  laid, 

On  which  they  sat,  and  sang,  and  prayed. 

Above  that  consecrated  tree 

Ascends  the  tapering  spire,  that  seems 

To  lift  the  soul  up  silently 

To  heaven  with  all  its  dreams ! — 

While  in  the  belfry,  deep  and  low, 

From  his  heaved  bosom's  purple  gleams 

The  dove's  continuous  murmurs  flow, 

A  dirge-like  song,  half  bliss,  half  woe, — 

The  voice  so  lonely  seems ! 

John  Wilson. 


A  SUMMER  SABBATH   WALK. 

Delightful  is  this  loneliness  ;  it  calms 

My  heart :  pleasant  the  cool  beneath  these  elms, 

That  throw  across  the  stream  a  moveless  shade. 

Here  nature  in  her  midnoon  whisper  speaks : 

How  peaceful  every  sound  ! — the  ring-dove's  plaint, 

Moaned  from  the  twilight  centre  of  the  grove. 

While  every  other  woodland  lay  is  mute. 

Save  when  the  wren  flits  from  her  down-coved  nest. 


32  A    SUMMER    SABBATH    WALK. 

And  from  the  root-sprig  trills  her  ditty  clear, — 

The  grasshopper's  oft-pausing  chirp, — the  buzz, 

Angrily  shrill,  of  moss-entangled  bee. 

That,  soon  as  loosed,  booms  with  full  twang  away, — 

The  sudden  rushing  of  the  minnow  shoal, 

Scared  from  the  shallows  by  my  passing  tread. 

Grateful  the  breeze 
That  fans  my  throbbing  temples  !  smiles  the  plain 
Spread  wide  below :  how  sweet  the  placid  view  ! 
But    oh !    more   sweet   the    thought,   heart-soothing 

thought, 
That  thousands,  and  ten  thousands  of  the  sons 
Of  toil,  partake  this  day  the  common  joy 
Of  rest,  of  peace,  of  viewing  hill  and  dale, 
Of  breathing  in  the  silence  of  the  woods, 
And  blessing  Him,  who  gave  the  Sabbath  day. 
Yes,  my  heart  flutters  with  a  freer  throb. 
To  think  that  now  the  townsman  wanders  forth 
Among  the  fields  and  meadows,  to  enjoy 
The  coolness  of  the  day's  decline ;  to  see 
His  children  sport  around,  and  simply  pull 
The  flower  and  weed  promiscuous,  as  a  boon. 
Which  proudly  in  his  breast  they  smiling  fix. 

Gbauame. 


THE    SABBATH.  33 


THE   VILLAGE   CHURCH. 

Morning  and  Evening  brings 
Its  holy  office  ;  and  the  Sabbath-bell, 
That  over  wood  and  wild  and  mountain  dell 
Wanders  so  far,  chasing  all  thoughts  unholy 
With  sounds  most  musical,  most  melancholy, 
Not  on  his  ear  is  lost. — Then  he  pursues 
The  pathway  leading  through  the  aged  yews, 
Nor  unattended,  and  when  all  are  there. 
Pours  out  his  spirit  in  the  House  of  Prayer. 

Rogers. 


THE    SABBATH. 


What  spell  has  o'er  the  populous  city  past ! 

The  wonted  current  of  its  life  is  stayed : 
Its  sports,  its  gainful  schemes,  are  earthward  cast, 

As  though  their  vileness  were  at  once  displayed : 
The  roar  of  trade  has  ceased,  and  on  the  air 
Come  holy  songs  and  solemn  sounds  of  prayer. 

Far  spreads  the  charm  !  from  every  hamlet  spire 
A  note  of  rest  and  heavenward  thought  is  pealed 
5 


34  THE    SABBATH. 

Bj  his  calm  hearth  reclines  the  peasant  sire ; 

The  toil-worn  steed  basks  in  the  breezy  field. 
Within,  without,  through  farm  and  cottage  blest, 
'Tis  one  bright  day  of  gladness  and  of  rest. 

Down  from  the  mountain  dwellings,  while  the  dew 
Shines  on  the  heath-bells,  and  the  fern  is  bending 

In  the  fresh  breeze,  in  festive  garbs  I  view 

Childhood  and  age  and  buoyant  youth  descending. 

God !  who  hast  piled  thy  wonders  round  their  home, 

'Tis  in  their  love  they  to  thy  temple  come. 

A  stately  ship  speeds  o'er  the  mighty  main — 
Oh,  many  a  league  from  our  own  happy  land : 

Yet  from  its  heart  ascends  the  choral  strain  ; 
For  there  its  little  isolated  band. 

Amid  the  ocean  desert's  awful  roar, 

Praise  Him  whose  love  links  shore  to  distant  shore. 

O'er  palmy  woods  where  summer  radiance  falls, 
In  the  glad  islands  of  the  Indian  main, 

What  thronging  crowds  the  missionary  calls 

To  raise  to  heaven  the  Christian's  glorious  strain ! 

Lo !  where,  engirt  by  children  of  the  sun. 

Stands  the  white  man,  and  counts  his  victories  won. 


SUNDAY    WALKS.  35 

In  the  fierce  deserts  of  a  distant  zone, 
'Mid  savage  nations  terrible  and  stern, 

A  lonely  atom,  severed  from  his  own, 

The  traveller  -wends,  death  or  renown  to  earn. 

Parched,  fasting,  wearied,  verging  to  despair. 

He  kneels,  he  prays — ^hope  kindles  in  his  prayer. 

O'er  the  wide  world,  blest  day,  thine  influence  flies ; 

Rest  o'er  the  sufferer  spreads  her  balmy  wings ; 
Love   wakes,  joy   dawns,  praise   fills    the   listening 
skies ; 
Th'  expanding   heart   from    earth's  enchantment 
springs : — 
Heaven  for  one  day  withdraws  its  ancient  ban. 
Unbars  its  gates  and  dwells  once  more  with  man. 

William  Howitt. 


SUNDAY   WALKS. 

How  fond  the  rustic's  ear  at  leisure  dwells 
On  the  soft  soundings  of  his  village  bells. 
As  on  a  Sunday  morning  at  his  ease 
He  takes  his  rambles,  just  as  fancies  please. 


36  SUNDAY    WALKS. 

Down  narrow  balks  that  intersect  the  fields, 

Hid  in  profusion  that  its  produce  yields  : 

Long  twining  peas,  in  faintly  misted  greens ; 

And  winged-leaf  multitudes  of  crowding  beans ; 

And  flighty  oatlands  of  a  lighter  hue  ; 

And  speary  barley  bowing  down  with  dew ; 

And  browning  wheat-ear,  on  its  taper  stalk, 

With  gentle  breezes  bending  o'er  the  balk, 

Greeting  the  parting  hand  that  brushes  near 

With  patting  welcomes  of  a  plenteous  year. 

Or  narrow  lanes,  where  cool  and  gloomy  sweet 

Hedges  above  head  in  an  arbor  meet. 

Meandering  down,  and  resting  for  a  while 

Upon  a  moss-clad  molehill  or  a  stile  ; 

While  every  scene  that  on  his  leisure  crowds. 

Wind-waving  valleys  and  light  passing  clouds, 

In  brighter  colors  seems  to  meet  the  eye. 

Than  in  the  bustle  of  the  days  gone  by. 

A  peaceful  solitude  around  him  creeps. 

And  nature  seemly  o'er  her  quiet  sleeps  ; 

No  noise  is  heard,  save  sutherings  through  the  trees 

Of  brisk  wind  gushes,  or  a  trembling  breeze  ; 

And  song  of  linnets  in  the  hedge-row  thorn. 

Twittering  their  welcomes  to  the  day's  return ; 


SUNDAY    WALKS.  37 

And  hum  of  bees,  where  labor's  doomed  to  stray- 
In  ceaseless  bustle  on  his  weary  way  ; 
And  low  of  distant  cattle  here  and  there, 
Seeking  the  stream,  or  dropping  down  to  lair  ; 
And  bleat  of  sheep,  and  horses'  playful  neigh, 
From  rustic's  whips,  and  plough,  and  wagon,  free, 
Baiting  in  careless  freedom  o'er  the  leas. 
Or  turned  to  knap  each  other  at  their  ease. 
While  'neath  the  bank  on  which  he  rests  his  head 
The  brook  mourns  drippling  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 
And  whimpers  soothingly  a  calm  serene 
O'er  the  lulled  comforts  of  a  Sunday  scene, 
He  ponders  round,  and  muses  with  a  smile 
On  thriving  produce  of  his  earlier  toil ; 
What  once  were  kernels  from  his  hopper  sown, 
Now  browning  wheat-ears  and  oat-bunches  grown, 
And  pea-pods  swelled,  by  blossoms  long  forsook, 
And  nearly  ready  for  the  scythe  and  hook  : 
He  pores  with  wonder  on  the  mighty  change 
Which   suns    and    showers   perform,  and   thinks   it 

strange ; 
And  though  no  philosophic  reasoning  draws. 
His  music  marvels  home  to  nature's  cause, 
A  simple  feeling  in  him  turns  his  eye 


38  SUNDAY    WALKS. 

To  "where  the  thin  clouds  smoke  along  the  sky ; 
And  there  his  soul  consents  the  Power  must  reign 
Who  rules  the  year,  and  shoots  the  spindling  grain, 
Lights  up  the  sun,  and  sprinkles  rain  below — 
The  Fount  of  nature  whence  all  causes  flow. 
Thus  much  the  feeling  of  his  bosom  warms, 
Nor  seeks  he  farther  than  his  soul  informs. 

A  six-days'  prisoner,  life's  support  to  earn 
From  dusty  cobwebs  and  the  murky  barn, 
The  weary  thresher  meets  the  rest  that's  given, . 
And  thankful  soothes  him  in  the  boon  of  heaven ; 
But  happier  still  in  Sabbath  walks  he  feels. 
With  love's  sweet  pledges  peddling  at  his  heels. 
That  oft  divert  him  with  their  childish  glee 
In  fruitless  chases  after  bird  and  bee ; 
And,  eager  gathering  every  flower  they  pass 
Of  yellow  lambtoe  and  the  totter-grass. 
Oft  whimper  round  him  disappointment's  sigh 
At  sight  of  blossom  that's  in  bloom  too  high, 
And  twitch  his  sleeve  with  all  their  coaxing  powers 
To  urge  his  hand  to  reach  the  tempting  flowers : 
Then  as  he  climbs,  their  eager  hopes  to  crown, 
On  gate  or  stile  to  pull  the  blossoms  down 


SUNDAY   WALKS.  39 

Of  pale  hedge-roses  straggling  wild  and  tall, 
And  scrambling  woodbines  that  outgrow  them  all, 
He  turns  to  days  when  he  himself  would  tease 
His  tender  father  for  such  toys  as  these, 
And  smiles  with  rapture,  as  he  plucks  the  flowers. 
To  meet  the  feelings  of  those  lovely  hours. 
And  blesses  Sunday's  rest,  whose  peace  at  will 
Retains  a  portion  of  those  pleasures  still. 

But  when  the  duty  of  the  day's  expired, 
And  priest  and  parish  offer  what's  required, 
When  godly  farmer  shuts  his  book  again 
To  talk  of  profits  from  advancing  grain. 
Short  memory  keeping  what  the  parson  read. 
Prayers  'neath  his  arm,  and  business  in  his  head  ; 
And,  dread  of  boys,  the  clerk  is  left  to  close 
The  creaking  church-door  on  its  week's  repose ; 
Then  leave  me  Sunday's  remnant  to  employ 
In  seeking  sweets  of  solitary  joy, 
And  lessons  learning  from  a  simple  tongue. 
Where  nature  preaches  in  a  cricket's  song ; 
Where  every  tiny  thing  that  flies  and  creeps. 

Some  feeble  language  owns,  its  prayer  to  raise ; 
Where  all  that  lives,  by  noise  or  silence,  keeps 

A  homely  Sabbath  in  its  Maker's  praise. 


40  SUNDAY   WALKS. 

There,  free  from  labor,  let  my  musings  stray 
Where  footpaths  ramble  from  the  public  way 
In  quiet  loneliness  o'er  many  a  scene, 
Through  grassy  close,  or  grounds  of  blossomed  bean  ; 
Oft  winding  balks  where  groves  of  willows  spread 
Their  welcome  waving  shadows  over-head, 
And  thorns  beneath  in  woodbines  often  drest 
Inviting  strongly  in  their  peace  to  rest ; 
Or  wildly  left  to  follow  choice  at  will 
O'er  many  a  trackless  vale  and  pathless  hill, 
Or,  nature's  wilderness,  o'er  heaths  of  goss, 
Each  footstep  sinking  ankle-deep  in  moss. 
By  pleasing  interruptions  often  tied, 
A  hedge  to  clamber  or  a  brook  to  stride ; 
Where  no  approaching  feet  or  noises  rude 
Molest  the  quiet  of  one's  solitude. 
Save  birds,  their  song  broke  by  a  false  alarm, 
Through    branches    fluttering    from    their    fancied 

harm ; 
And  cows  and  sheep  with  startled  low  and  bleat 
Distui'bed  from  lair  by  one's  unwelcome  feet, — 
The  all  that's  met  in  Sunday's  slumbering  ease. 
That  adds  to,  more  than  checks  the  power  to  please. 


SUNDAY    WALKS.  41 

And  sweet  it  is  to  creep  one's  blinded  way 
Where  woodland  boughs  shut  out  the  smiles  of  day, 
Where,  hemmed  in  glooms  that  scarce  give  leave  to 

spy 

A  passing  cloud  or  patch  of  purple  sky. 
We  track,  half  hidden  from  the  world  besides, 
Sweet  hermit-nature  that  in  woodlands  hides ; 
Where  nameless  flowers  that  never  meet  the  sun, 
Like  bashful  modesty,  the  sight  to  shun. 
Bud  in  their  snug  retreat,  and  bloom,  and  die, 
Without  one  notice  of  a  passing  eye ; 
There,  while  I  drop  me  in  the  woody  waste 
'Neath  arbors  Nature  fashions  to  her  taste. 
Entwining  oak-trees  with  the  ivy's  gloom. 
And  woodbines  propping  over  boughs  to  bloom. 
And  scalloped  briony  mingling  round  her  bowers. 
Whose    fine    bright    leaves    make    up    tlie  want  of 

flowers, — 
With  nature's  minstrels  of  the  woods  let  me. 
Thou  Lord  of  Sabbaths,  add  a  song  to  thee. 
An  humble  offering  for  the  holy  day 

Which  thou  most  wise  and  graciously  hast  given, 
As  leisure  dropt  in  labor's  rugged  way 

To  claim  a  passport  with  the  rest  to  heaven. 

Clare. 


42  THE    SABBATH. 


THE   SABBATH. 


Fresh  glides  the  brook  and  blows  the  gale, 
Yet  yonder  halts  the  quiet  mill ; 

The  whirring  wheel,  the  rushing  sail, 
How  motionless  and  still ! 

Six  days  of  toil,  poor  child  of  Cain, 

Thy  strength  the  slave  of  Want  may  be ; 

The  seventh  thy  limbs  escape  the  chain — 
A  God  hath  made  thee  free  ! 

Ah,  tender  was  the  law  that  gave 
This  holy  respite  to  the  breast, 

To  breathe  the  gale,  to  watch  the  wave, 
And  know — the  wheel  may  rest ! 

But  where  the  waves  the  gentlest  glide, 
What  image  charms  to  lift  thine  eyes  ? 

The  spire  reflected  on  the  tide 
Invites  thee  to  the  skies. 

To  teach  the  soul  its  nobler  worth, 
This  rest  from  mortal  toils  is  given  ; 

Go,  snatch  the  brief  reprieve  from  earth, 
And  pass — a  guest  to  heaven. 


THE    SABBATH.  43 

They  tell  thee,  in  their  dreaming  school, 
Of  power  from  old  dominion  hurled. 

When  rich  and  poor,  with  juster  rule. 
Shall  share  the  altered  world. 

Alas  !  since  Time  itself  began. 

That  fable  hath  but  fooled  the  hour ; 

Each  age  that  ripens  power  in  man. 
But  subjects  man  to  power. 

Yet  every  day  in  seven,  at  least. 

One  bright  republic  shall  be  known  ; — 

Man's  world  awhile  hath  surely  ceased, 
When  God  proclaims  his  own ! 

Six  days  may  Rank  divide  the  poor, 
0  Dives,  from  thy  banquet  hall — 

The  seventh  the  Father  opes  the  door. 
And  holds  His  feast  for  all ! 

Sir  E.  Bulweu  Lyttoh 


THE    SABBATH. 

Dear  is  the  hallowed  morn  to  me. 
When  village  bells  awake  the  day ; 


44  THE    SABBATH. 

And  by  their  sacred  minstrelsy, 
Call  me  from  earthly  cares  away. 

And  dear  to  me  the  winged  hour, 

Spent  in  thy  hallowed  courts,  0  Lord — 

To  feel  devotion's  soothing  power, 
And  catch  the  manna  of  thy  Word. 

And  dear  to  me  the  loud  Amen 

Which  echoes  through  the  blest  abode. 

Which  swells,  and  sinks,  and  swells  again, 
Dies  on  the  walls,  but  lives  to  God. 

And  dear  the  simple  melody. 

Sung  with  the  pomp  of  rustic  art, 

That  holy,  heavenly  harmony, 
The  music  of  a  thankful  heart. 

In  secret  I  have  often  prayed, 

And  still  the  anxious  tear  would  fall ; 

But,  on  the  sacred  altar  laid. 

The  fire  descends  and  dries  them  all. 

Oft  when  the  world,  with  iron  hands. 
Has  bound  me  in  its  six  days'  chain. 


THECHURCHYARD.  45 

This  burst  tliem,  like  the  strong  man's  bands, 
And  let  my  spirit  loose  again. 

Then,  dear  to  me,  the  Sabbath  morn, 
The  village  bells,  the  shepherd's  voice, 

These  oft  have  found  my  heart  forlorn, 
And  always  bid  that  heart  rejoice. 

Go,  man  of  pleasure,  strike  the  lyre, 
Of  Sabbaths  broken  sing  the  charms ; 

Ours  are  the  prophet's  car  of  fire. 
Which  bears  us  to  a  Father's  arms. 

Cunningham. 


THE    CHURCHYARD. 

The  thought  of  early  death  was  in  my  heart, 
Of  the  cold  grave,  and  "dumb  forgetfulness ;" 

And  with  a  Aveight  like  lead. 

An  overwhelming  dread 
Mysteriously  my  spirit  did  oppress. 

And  forth  I  roamed  in  that  distressful  mood, 
Abroad  into  the  sultry,  sunless  day ; 


4G  THE    CHURCHYARD. 

All  hung  with  one  huge  cloud, 
That  like  a  sable  shroud 
On  Nature's  deep  sepulchral  stillness  lay. 

Black  fell  the  shadows  of  the  churchyard  elms, 
(Instinctively  my  feet  had  wandered  there,) 

And  through  that  awful  gloom, 

Headstone  and  altar  tomb. 
Among   the    dark   heaps   gleamed  with  ghastlier 

glare. 

Death,  death  was  in  my  heart,  as  there  I  stood ; 
Mine  eyes  fast  fixed  on  a  grass-grown  mound ; 

As  though  they  Avould  descry 

The  loathsome  mystery 
Consummating  beneath  that  charnel  ground. 

Death,  death  was  in  my  heart — Methought  I  felt 
A  heavy  hand  that  pressed  me  down  below — 
And  some  resistless  power 
Made  me  in  that  dark  hour. 
Half  long  to  he,  where  I  abhorred  to  go. 

Then  suddenly — albeit  no  breeze  was  felt — 

Through  the  tall  tree-tops  ran  a  shivering  sound — 


THE    CHURCHYARD.  47 

Forth  from  the  western  heaven 
Flashed  out  a  flaming  levin, 
And  one  long  thunder-peal  rolled  echoing  round. 

One  long,  long-echoing  peal,  and  all  was  peace — 
Cool  rain-drops  gemmed  the  herbage — large  and 
few; 
And  that  dull  vault  of  lead 
Disparting  overhead, 
Down  beamed  an  eye  of  soft  celestial  blue. 

And  up  towards  the  heavenly  portal  sprang 
A  skylark,  scattering  off  the  feathery  rain  ; 

Up,  from  my  very  feet — 

And  oh !  how  clear  and  sweet 
Rang  through  the  fields  of  air  his  mountain  strain  ! 

« Blithe,  blessed   creature !    take   me  there  with 
thee  !" 
I  cried  in  spirit — passionately  cried — 
But  higher  still,  and  higher 
Rang  out  that  living  lyre, 
As  if  the  bird  disdained  me  in  its  pride. 


48  THE    VILLAGE    CHURCH. 

And  I  was  left  below,  but  now  no  more 

Plunged  in  the  doleful  realms  of  death  and  night ; 
Up  with  the  skylark's  lay 
My  soul  had  winged  its  way 
To  the  supernal  Source  of  life  and  light. 

Miss  Bowles, 


THE  VILLAGE   CHURCH. 

Dear  is  the  ancient  village  church,  which  rears 

By  the  lone  yew,  on  lime  or  elm-girt  mound, 

Its  modest  fabric :  dear,  'mid  pleasant  sound 

Of  bells,  the  gray  embattled  tower,  that  wears, 

Of  changeful  hue,  the  marks  of  bygone  years  ; 

Buttress,  and  porch,  and  arch  with  mazy  round 

Of  curious  fret  or  shapes  fantastic  crowned  ; 

Tall  pinnacles,  and  mingled  window-tiers, 

Norman,  or  misnamed  Gothic.     Fairer  spot 

Thou  givest  not,  England,  to  the  tasteful  eye, 

Nor  to  the  heart  more  soothing.     Blest  their  lot. 

Knew  they  their  bliss,  who  own,  their   dwelling 

nigh. 

Such  resting-place ;  there,  by  the  world  forgot, 

In  life  to  worship,  and,  when  dead,  to  lie ! 

Bp.  Mant. 


THE    VILLAGE    CHURCH.  49 


They  pursue  the  pebbly  walk 

That  leads  to  the  white  porch  the  Sunday  throng, 
Hand-coupled  urchins  in  restrained  talk, 

And  anxious  pedagogue  that  chastens  wrong. 
And  posied  churchwarden  with  solemn  stalk. 

And  gold-bedizened  beadle  flames  along, 
And  gentle  peasant  clad  in  buff  and  green. 
Like  a  meek  cowslip  in  the  spring  serene ; 

And  blushing  maiden, — modestly  arrayed 

In  spotless  white, — still  conscious  of  the  glass  ; 

And  she,  the  lonely  Avidow,  that  hath  made 
A  sable  covenant  with  grief, — alas  ! 

She  veils  her  tears  under  the  deep,  deep  shade, 
While  the  poor  kindly-hearted,  as  they  pass, 

Bend  to  unclouded  childhood,  and  caress 

Her  boy  ! — so  rosy  ! — and  so  fatherless  ! 

Thus,  as  good  Christians  ought,  they  all  draw  near 
The  fair  white  temple,  to  the  timely  call 
7 


50  THE     CHURCH     BELLS. 

Of  pleasant  bells  that  tremble  in  the  ear. — 

Now  the  last  frock,  and  scarlet  hood,  and  shawl 

Fade  into  dusk,  in  the  dim  atmosphere 

Of  the  low  porch,  and  heaven  has  won  them  all. 

Hood 


THE  CHURCH  BELLS, 

What  varying  sounds  from  yon  gray  pinnacles 

Sweep  o'er  the  ear,  and  claim  the  heart's  reply! 

Now  the  blithe  peal  of  home  festivity, 
Natal  or  nuptial,  in  full  concert  swells : 
Now  the  brisk  chime,  or  voice  of  altered  bells, 

Speaks  the  due  hour  of  social  worship  nigh : 

And  now  the  last  stage  of  mortality 
The  deep  dull  toll  with  lingering  warning  tells. 
How  much  of  human  life  those  sounds  comprise ; 

Birth,  wedded  love,  God's  service,  and  the  tomb  I 
Heard  not  in  vain,  if  thence  kind  feelings  rise. 

Such  as  befit  our  being,  free  from  gloom 
Monastic, — prayer  that  communes  with  the  skies, 

And  musings  mindful  of  the  final  doom. 

Bp.  Mant. 


AN    AUTUMN    SABBATH    WALK.  51 


AN  AUTUMN  SABBATH  WALK. 

When  homeward  bands  their  several  Avays  disperse, 

1  love  to  linger  in  the  narrow  field 

Of  rest ;  to  wander  round  from  tomb  to  tomb, 

And  think  of  some  who  silent  sleep  below. 

Sad  sighs  the  wind,  that  from  those  ancient  elms 

Shakes  showers  of  leaves  upon  the  withered  grass : 

The  sere  and  yellow  wreaths,  with  eddying  sweep, 

Fill  up  the  furrows  'tween  the  hillocked  graves. 

But  list  that  moan !   'tis  the  poor  blind  man's  dog, 

His  guide  for  many  a  day,  now  come  to  mourn 

The  master  and  the  friend — conjunction  rare  ! 

A  man  he  was  indeed  of  gentle  soul, 

Though  bred   to    brave    the    deep :    the   lightning's 

flash 
Had  dimmed,  not  closed,  his  mild,  but  sightless  eyes. 
He  was  a  welcome  guest  through  all  his  range  ; 
(It  was  not  wide :)  no  dog  would  bay  at  him  : 
Children  would  run  to  meet  him  on  his  way. 
And  lead  him  to  a  sunny  seat,  and  climb 
His  knee,  and  wonder  at  his  oft-told  tales. 
Then  would  he  teach  the  elfins  how  to  plait 


52  SABBATH     DAYS. 

The  rushy  cap  and  crown,  or  sedgy  ship ; 
And  I  have  seen  him  lay  his  tremulous  hand 
Upon  their  heads,  while  silent  moved  his  lips. 
Peace  to  thy  spirit !  that  now  looks  on  me, 
Perhaps  with  greater  pity  than  I  felt 

To  see  thee  wandering  darkling  on  thy  way. 

Grahame. 


SABBATH    DAYS. 

MODERNIZED  TROM  "  SON-DAYES,"  IN  VAUGHAN'S 
"SILEX    SCINTILLANS." 

Types  of  eternal  rest — fair  buds  of  bliss, 

In  heavenly  flowers  unfolding  week  by  week — 

The  next  world's  gladness  imaged  forth  in  this — 
Days  of  whose  worth  the  Christian's    heart   can 
speak  ! 

Eternity  in  time — the  steps  by  which 

We  climb  to  future  ages — lamps  that  light 

Man  through  his  darker  days,  and  thought  enrich, 
Yielding  redemption  for  the  week's  dull  flight. 


SABBATH     DATS.  53 

Wakeners  of  prayer  in  man — his  resting  bowers 
As  on  he  journeys  in  the  narrow  way, 

Where,  Eden-like,  Jehovah's  walking  hours 
Are  waited  for  as  in  the  cool  of  day. 

Days  fixed  by  God  for  intercourse  with  dust. 
To  raise  our  thoughts  and  purify  our  powers — 

Periods  appointed  to  renew  our  trust — 
A  gleam  of  glory  after  six  days'  showers ! 

A  milky  way  marked  out  through  skies  else  drear, 
By  radiant  suns  that  warm  as  well  as  shine — 

A  clue,  which  he  who  follows  knows  no  fear, 

Though    briers    and    thorns   around    his   pathway 
twine. 

Foretastes  of  heaven  on  earth — pledges  of  joy 
Surpassing  fancy's  flights,  and  fiction's  story — 

The  preludes  of  a  feast  that  cannot  cloy. 

And  the  bright  out-courts  of  immortal  glory  ! 

Baeton. 


54  THE    BELL. 


How  soft  the  music  of  those  village  bells, 

Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 

In  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away, 

Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still. 

Clear  and  sonorous,  as  the  gale  comes  on ! 

With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 

Where  Memory  slept.     Wherever  I  have  heard 

A  kindred  melody,  the  scene  recurs, 

And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pains. 

Such  comprehensive  views  the  spirit  takes. 

That  in  a  few  short  moments  I  retrace 

(As  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course) 

The  windings  of  my  way  through  many  years. 

COWPEK. 


THE    BELL. 


I  LOVE  the  bell  that  calls  the  poor  to  pray, 

Chiming  from  village  church  its  cheerful  sound. 

When  the  sun  smiles  on  Labor's  holy-day, 
And  all  the  rustic  train  are  gathered  round, 

Each  deftly  dizcned  in  his  Sunday's  best, 

And  pleased  to  hail  the  day  of  piety  and  rest. 


THE    VILLAGE     CHURCH.  55 

And  when,  dim  shadowing  o'er  the  face  of  day, 
The  mantling  mists  of  eventide  rise  slow. 

As  through  the  forest  gloom  I  wend  my  way, 
The  minster  curfew's  sullen  voice  I  know. 

And  pause,  and  love  its  solemn  toll  to  hear, 

As  made  by  distance  soft  it  dies  upon  the  ear. 

Nor  with  an  idle  nor  unwilling  ear 

Do  I  receive  the  early  passing  bell ; 
For,  sick  at  heart  with  many  a  secret  care. 

When  I  lie  listening  to  the  dead  man's  knell, 
I  think  that  in  the  grave  all  sorrows  cease, 
And  would    full    fain    recline    my  head    and   be    at 
peace. 

SOUTHET. 


THE   VILLAGE   CHURCH. 

Mine  be  the  rude  and  artless  pile. 
The  ivy-mantled  turret  gray, 

Within  whose  old  unsculptured  aisle, 
The  toil-worn  peasant  kneels  to  pray ; 

The  whitened  wall,  the  latticed  pane. 
The  rustic  porch,  the  oaken  door  ; 


56  THE    VILLAGE    CHURCH. 

Above,  the  rafters  huge  and  plain, 
Beneath,  the  footstep-graven  floor. 

Not  here,  where  few  could  pomp  admire, 

The  sons  of  wealth  their  pomp  display ; 
They  throng  not  here  in  gay  attire, 

Who  come  to  gaze  and  not  to  pray : 
No  high-tuned  choral  peals  surprise, 

Enchanting  fashion's  languid  train. 
With  arts  ingenious  to  disguise 

The  bard  of  Sion's  raptured  strain. 

But  here,  where  lowly  hearts  are  bowed. 

By  toil  and  sorrows  gentler  made, 
Nor  earth-born  schemes,  nor  visions  proud. 

The  unambitious  breast  invade  ; 
More  nearly  is  His  presence  felt, 

For  whom  the  Heaven  of  Heaven  expands 
Its  arch  in  vain,  who  never  dwelt 

In  temples  built  by  human  hands. 

By  viewless  Spirit  of  the  air 

The  soul's  mysterious  depths  are  stirred, 
More  fervent  soars  the  heavenward  prayer, 

More  deeply  sinks  the  engrafted  word : 


THEDAYOFREST.  57 

Oh  !  could  my  heart,  in  darker  hour, 
That  cahn  and  reverent  mood  recall, 

How  weak  were  then  temptation's  power. 
How  frail  the  world's  unhalloAved  thrall ! 

Anon. 


THE    DAY   OP  REST. 

Return,  thou  wished  and  welcome  guest, 
Thou  day  of  holiness  and  rest ; 
The  best,  the  dearest  of  the  seven. 
Emblem  and  harbinger  of  heaven ; 
Though  not  the  Bridegroom,  at  His  voice. 
Friend  of  the  Bridegroom,  still  rejoice. 
Day,  doubly  sanctified  and  blessed. 
Thee  the  Creator  crowned  with  rest ; 
From  all  His  works,  from  all  His  woes. 
On  thee  the  Saviour  found  repose. 
Thou  dost,  with  mystic  voice,  rehearse 
The  birth-day  of  a  universe  ; 
Prophet,  historian,  both,  in  scope 
Thou  speak 'st  to  memory  and  to  hope. 

Amidst  the  earthliness  of  life, 
Vexation,  vanity  and  strife, 


58  THE    DAY    OF    REST. 

Sabbath !  how  sweet  thy  holy  calm 
Comes  o'er  the  soul,  like  healing  balm  ; 
Comes  like  the  dew  to  fainting  flowers, 
Renewing  her  enfeebled  powers. 
Thine  hours,  how  soothingly  they  glide, 
Thy  morn,  thy  noon,  thine  eventide  ! 

All  meet  as  brethren,  mix  as  friends ; 
Nature  her  general  groan  suspends ; 
No  cares  the  sin-born  laborers  tire ; 
E'en  the  poor  brutes  thou  bid'st  respire 
'Tis  almost  as,  restored  awhile, 
Earth  had  resumed  her  Eden  smile. 
I  love  thy  call  of  earthly  bells, 
As  on  my  waking  ear  it  swells ; 
I  love  to  see  thy  pious  train 
Seeking  in  groups  the  solemn  fane : 
But  most  I  love  to  mingle  there 
In  sympathy  of  praise  and  prayer. 
And  listening  to  that  living  Word, 
Which  breathes  the  spirit  of  the  Lord : 
Or  at  the  mystic  table  placed. 
Those  eloquent  mementoes  taste 
Of  Thee,  Thou  suffering  Lamb  Divine, 
Thou  soul-refreshing  bread  and  wine ; 


THE    DAY    OF    REST.  59 

Sweet  viands  given  us  to  assuage 
The  faintness  of  the  pilgrimage. 

Severed  from  Salem,  while  unstrung 
His  harp  on  Pagan  willows  hung, 
What  wonder  if  the  Psalmist  pined. 
As  for  her  brooks  the  hunted  hind  ! — 
The  temple's  humblest  place  should  win 
Gladlier  than  all  the  pomp  of  sin  ; — 
Envied  th'  unconscious  birds  that  sung 
Around  those  altars,  o'er  their  young ; 
And  deemed  one  heavenly  Sabbath  worth 
More  than  a  thousand  days  of  earth  ; 
Well  might  his  heart  and  harp  rejoice 
To  hear,  once  more,  that  festal  voice ; 
"  Come,  brethren,  come  with  glad  accord, 
Haste  to  the  dAvelling  of  the  Lord." 

But  if  on  earth  so  calm,  so  blest. 
The  house  of  prayer,  the  day  of  rest ; 
If  to  the  spirit  when  it  faints. 
So  sweet  the  assembly  of  the  saints  ; — 
There  let  us  pitch  our  tents  (we  say). 
For,  Lord,  with  Thee  'tis  good  to  stay ! 
Yet  from  the  mount  we  soon  descend. 
Too  soon  our  earthly  Sabbaths  end ; 


60  THEIIOUROFPRAYER. 

Cares  of  a  work-day  will  return, 

And  faint  our  hearts,  and  fitful,  burn ; 

Oh  !  think,  my  soul !  beyond  compare, 

Think  what  a  Sabbath  must  be  there, 

Where  all  is  holy  bliss,  that  knows 

Nor  imperfection,  nor  a  close  ; 

Where  that  innumerable  throng 

Of  saints  and  angels  mingle  song  ; 

Where,  wrought  with  hands,  no  temples  rise, 

For  God  Himself  their  place  supplies  ; 

Nor  priests  are  needed  in  the  abode 

Where  the  whole  hosts  are  priests  to  God. 

Think  what  a  Sabbath  there  shall  be, — 

The  Sabbath  of  Eternity  ! 

Grinfield. 


THE   HOUR  OF  PRAYER. 

Child,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play, 
While  the  red  light  fades  away ; 
Mother,  with  thine  earnest  eye 
Ever  following  silently ; 
Father,  by  the  breeze  of  eve 
Called  thy  harvest  work  to  leave — 


THE    HOUR    OF    PRAYER.  61 

Pray :  ere  yet  the  dark  hours  be, 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee  ! 

Traveller,  in  the  stranger's  land, 
Far  from  thine  own  household  band ; 
Mourner,  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  a  voice  from  this  world  gone  ; 
Captive,  in  whose  narrow  cell 
Sunshine  hath  not  leave  to  dwell ; 
Sailor,  on  the  darkening  sea — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee  ! 

Warrior,  that  from  battle  won 
Breathest  now  at  set  of  sun  ; 
Woman,  o'er  the  lowly  slain 
Weeping  on  his  burial-plain  ; 
Ye  that  triumph,  ye  that  sigh, 
Kindred  by  one  holy  tie. 
Heaven's  first  star  alike  ye  see — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee ! 

Hemans 


62  PRAYER. 


PRAYEK. 

Ere  the  morning's  busy  ray 

Call  you  to  your  work  away ; 

Ere  the  silent  evening  close 

Your  wearied  eyes  in  sweet  repose, 

To  lift  your  heart  and  voice  in  prayer 

Be  jouY  first  and  latest  care. 

He,  to  Avhom  the  prayer  is  due, 

From  heaven  His  throne  shall  smile  on  you ; 

Angels  sent  by  Him  shall  tend, 

Your  daily  labor  to  befriend, 

And  their  nightly  vigils  keep 

To  guard  you  in  the  hour  of  sleep. 

When  through  the  peaceful  parish  swells 

The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells, 

Duly  tread  the  sacred  road 

Which  leads  you  to  the  house  of  God ; 

The  blessing  of  the  Lamb  is  there, 

And  "  God  is  in  the  midst  of  her." 


PRAYER.  63 

And  oh !  where'er  your  days  be  past, 
And  oh !  howe'er  your  lot  be  cast, 
Still  think  on  Him  whose  eye  surveys. 
Whose  hand  is  over  all  your  ways. 
Abroad,  at  home,  in  weal,  in  woe. 
That  service  which  to  Heaven  you  owe. 
That  bounden  service  duly  pay. 
And  God  shall  be  your  strength  alway. 

He  only  to  the  heart  can  give 
Peace  and  true  pleasure  while  you  live  ; 
He  only,  when  you  yield  your  breath, 
Can  guide  you  through  the  vale  of  death. 

He  can,  He  will,  from  out  the  dust 

Raise  the  blest  spirits  of  the  just ; 

Heal  every  wound,  hush  every  fear, 

From  every  eye  wipe  every  tear ; 

And  place  them  where  distress  is  o'er. 

And  pleasures  dwell  for  evermore. 

Bp.  Manx. 


64  A    GLEAM    OF    SUNSHINE. 

A   GLEAM   OF   SUNSHINE. 

This  is  the  place.     Stand  still,  my  steed, 

Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 

The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite. 

Beneath  time's  flowing  tide. 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook. 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with  thee, 

0  gentlest  of  my  friends  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass  ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 
And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they ; 

One  of  God's  holy  messengers 
Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 


A    GLEAM    OF    SUNSHINE.  65 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 

Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 
The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 

Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

"  Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born  !" 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam. 
Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon  the  wind. 

Sweet-scented  with  the  hay. 
Turned  o'er  the  hymn-book's  fluttering  leaves 

That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 
For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful. 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 
9 


66  THE    SABBATH    BELL. 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas !  the  place  seems  changed ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here  : 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 

Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high. 
Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 

A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh. 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 

Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs. 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 

Longfellow, 


THE   SABBATH   BELL. 

The  Sabbath  bell !  the  Sabbath  bell ! 

To  toil-worn  men  a  soothing  sound ; 
Now  labor  rests  beneath  its  spell', 

And  holy  stillness  reigns  around  : 


THE    SABBATH    BELL.  67 

The  ploughman's  team,  the  thresher's  flail, 
The  woodman's  axe,  their  clamors  cease, 

And  only  nature's  notes  prevail, 
To  humble  bosoms  echoing  peace. 

The  Sabbath  bell !  the  Sabbath  bell ! 

How  sweet  on  ears  devout  it  falls. 
While  its  sweet  chime,  with  varying  swell, 

The  rich  and  poor  to  worship  calls. 
Hark  !  hark  !  again  with  sharper  peals 

It  chides  the  laggard's  fond  delay  ; 
Now  through  the  vale  it  softly  steals. 

To  cheer  the  timely  on  their  way. 

The  Sabbath  bell !  the  Sabbath  bell ! 

What  soul-awakening  sounds  we  hear ! 
Its  blessed  invitations  tell 

Of  welcome  to  the  house  of  prayer. 
"Come,  sinner,  come,"  it  seems  to  cry; 

"  Oh  !  never  doubt  thy  Maker's  love  ; 
Christ  has  thy  ransom  paid,  then  why 

Delay  his  clemency  to  prove?" 

The  Sabbath  bell !  the  Sabbath  bell ! 
Oft  have  we  heard  its  warning  chime, 


68  SUNDAY. 

And  yet  we  love  the  world  too  well, 
Nor  feel  our  waywardness  a  crime : 

Yet  still  thy  calls,  sweet  bell,  repeat, 
Till,  ended  all  our  mortal  strife. 

In  hand-built  shrines  no  more  we  meet, 
But  worship  in  the  realms  of  life. 

The  Sabbath  bell !  the  Sabbath  bell ! 

Its  friendly  summons  peals  no  more  ; 
The  thronging  crowds  pour  in  with  zeal 

The  Great  Jehovah  to  adore. 
Hence  !  fancy  wild,  hence  !   earth-born  care  ; 

With  aAve  let  hallowed  courts  be  trod ; 
Wake  all  the  soul  to  love  and  prayer, 

And  reverence  the  present  God  ! 

Anon. 


SUNDAY. 

Thou  blessed  day !  I  will  not  call  thee  last. 
Nor  Sabbath, — last  nor  first  of  all  the  seven, 
But  a  calm  slip  of  intervening  heaven. 

Between  the  uncertain  future  and  the  past ; 

As  in  a  stormy  night,  amid  the  blast, 


SUNDAY.  -  69 

Comes  ever  and  anon  a  truce  on  liigh, 
And  a  calm  lake  of  pure  and  starry  sky 
Peers  through  the   mountainous  depths  of  clouds 

amassed. 
Sweet  day  of  prayer  !  e'en  they  whose  scrupulous 
dread 
Will  call  no  other  day  as  others  do, 
Might  call  thee  Sunday  without  fear  or  blame ! 
For  thy  bright  morn  delivered  from  the  dead 

Our  Sun  of  Life,  and  will  for  aye  renew 
To  faithful  souls  the  import  of  thy  name. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


SUNDAY. 

The  Sabbath-day,  of  every  day  the  best, 
The  poor  man's  happiness,  a  poor  man  sings  ; 
When  labor  has  no  claim  to  break  his  rest, 
And  the  light  hours  fly  swift  on  easy  wings. 
What  happiness  this  holy  morning  brings. 
How  soft  its  pleasures  on  his  senses  steal ; 
How  sweet  the  village-bells'  first  warning  rings ; 


70  SUNDAY. 

And  oh !  how  comfortable  does  he  feel, 
When  with  his  family  at   ease  he   takes  his   early 
meal. 

The  careful  wife  displays  her  frugal  hoard, 

And    both    partake    in    comfort,    though    they're 

poor ; 
While   love's    sweet   offsprings   crowd   the   lowly 

board, 
Their  little  likenesses  in  miniature. 
Though  through  the  week  he  labor  does  endure, 
And  weary  limbs  oft  cause  him  to  complain, 
This  welcome  morning  always  brings  a  cure  ; 
It  teems  with  joys  his  soul  to  entertain. 
And  doubly  sweet  appears  the  pleasure  after  pain. 

Ah,  who  can  tell  the  bliss,  from  labor  freed, 
His  leisure  meeteth  on  a  Sunday  morn. 
Fixed  in  a  chair,  some  godly  book  to  read, 
Or  wandering  round  to  view  the  crops  of  corn. 
In  best  clothes  fitted  out,  and  beard  new  shorn ; 
Dropping  adown  in  some  warm  sheltered  dell, 
With  six  days'  labor  weak  and  weary  worn ; 
List'ning  around  each  distant  chiming  bell, 
That  on  the  soft'ning  breeze  melodiously  doth  swell. 


SUNDAY.  71 

And  oft  he  takes  his  family  abroad 
In  short  excursions  o'er  the  field  and  plain, 
Marking  each  little  object  on  his  road, 
An  insect,  sprig  of  grass,  and  ear  of  grain ; 
Endeavoring  thus  most  simply  to  maintain 
That  the  same  Power  that  bids  the  mite  to  crawl, 
That   browns   the  wheat-lands  in  their   summer- 
stain, 
That    Power   which    formed    the    simple    flower 
withal. 
Formed  all  that  lives  and  grows  upon  this  earthly 
ball. 

^  ?jc  ^  ^ 

Hail,  sacred  Sabbath  !  hail,  thou  poor  man's  joy  ! 
Thou  oft  hast  been  a  comfort  to  my  care, 
When  faint  and  weary  with  the  week's  employ, 
I  met  thy  presence  in  my  corner-chair, 
Musing  and  bearing  up  with  troubles  there  ; 
Thrice  hail,  thou  heavenly  boon  !  by  God's  decree 
At  first  creation  planned,  that  all  might  share. 
Both  man  and  beast,  some  hours  from  labor  free, 
To  offer  thanks  to  Him  whose  mercy  sent  us  thee. 

This  day  the  field  a  sweeter  clothing  wears, 
A  Sunday  scene  looks  brighter  to  the  eye ; 


72  SUNDAY. 

And  hast'ning  on  to  Monday  morning's  cares, 
With  double  speed  the  winged  hour  gallops  by. 
How  swift  the  sun  streaks  down  the  western  sky, 
Scarcely  perceived  till  it  begins  to  wane, 
When  ploughboys  mark  his  setting  with  a  sigh. 
Dreading  the  morn's  approaching  hours  with  pain. 
When  capon's  restless  calls  awake  to  toil  again. 

As  the  day  closes  on  its  peace  and  rest. 
The  godly  man  sits  down  and  takes  "  the  Book," 
To  close  it  in  a  manner  deemed  the  best ; 
And  for  a  suiting  chapter  doth  he  look, 
That  may  for  comfort  and  a  guide  be  took  : 
He  reads  of  patient  Job,  his  trials'  thrall, 
How  men  are  troubled  when  by  God  forsook. 
And  prays  with  David  to  bear  up  with  all ; — 
When  sleep  shuts  up   the  scene,  soft  as  the  night- 
dews  fall. 

Clare. 


THEVOICEOFPRAYEE.  73 


THE  VOICE  OF  PRAYER. 

I  HEAR  it  in  the  summer  wind, 

I  feel  it  in  the  lightning's  gleam  ; 
A  tongue  in  every  leaf  I  find, 

A  voice  in  every  running  stream. 
It  speaks  in  the  enamelled  flower, 

With  grateful  incense  borne  on  high ; 
It  echoes  in  the  dripping  shower, 

And  breathes  in  midnight's  breathless  sky. 
Through  all  her  scenes  of  foul  and  fair, 
Nature  presents  a  fervent  prayer ; 
In  all  her  myriad  shapes  of  love. 
Nature  transmits  a  prayer  above. 

Day  unto  day,  and  night  to  night, 

The  eloquent  appeal  convey  ; 
Flasheth  the  cheerful  orb  of  light. 

To  bid  creation  bend  and  pray : 
The  shadowy  clouds  of  darkness  steal 

Along  the  horizon's  azure  cope. 
Bidding  distracted  nations  kneel 

To  Him,  the  Lord  of  quenchless  hope ; 
10 


74  THEVOICEOFPRAYER. 

To  Him,  who  died  that  hope  might  live, 
And  lived,  eternal  life  to  give ; 
Who  bore  the  pangs  of  death,  to  save 
The  dead  from  an  eternal  grave. 

Oh  !  thread  you  tangled  coppice  now, 

Where  the  sweetbrier  and  woodbine  strive ; 
Where  music  drops  from  every  bough, 

Like  honey  from  the  forest  hive ; 
Where  warbling  birds,  and  humming  bees. 

And  wild-flowers  round  a  gushing  spring, 
And  blossoms  sprinkled  o'er  the  trees, 

And  gorgeous  insects  on  the  wing. 
Unite  to  load  the  gladdened  air 
With  melody  of  grateful  prayer  ; 
Unite  their  Maker's  name  to  bless 
In  that  brief  span  of  happiness ! 

And  can  it  be  that  man  alone 

Forbids  the  tide  of  prayer  to  flow, 

For  whom  his  God  forsook  a  throne, 
To  weep,  to  bleed — a  man  of  woe  ? 

Ah !  'tis  alone  the  immortal  soul. 
An  endless  bliss  ordained  tb  win, 


THE    lord's    day.  75 

The  heaven  of  heavens  its  destined  goal, 

That  thus  is  sunk  in  shameless  sin  ? 

Scantlj  permitting  to  intrude 

The  faintest  gleam  of  gratitude  ; 

And  but  in  hours  of  dire  despair, 

Responding  in  the  voice  of  prayer  ! 

Anon. 


THE   LORD'S   DAY. 

Hail  to  the  day,  which  He,  who  made  the  heaven, 
Earth,  and  their  armies,  sanctified  and  blest, 
Perpetual  memory  of  the  Maker's  rest ! 

Hail  to  the  day,  when  He,  by  whom  was  given 

New  life  to  man,  the  tomb  asunder  riven, 

Arose !     That  day  his  Church  hath  still  confest. 
At  once  Creation's  and  Redemption's  feast. 

Sign  of  a  world  called  forth,  a  world  forgiven. 

Welcome  that  day,  the  day  of  holy  peace. 
The  Lord's  own  day !  to  man's  Creator  owed, 

And  man's  Redeemer ;  for  the  soul's  increase 
In  sanctity,  and  sweet  repose  bestowed ; 

Type  of  the  rest  when  sin  and  care  shall  cease, 
The  rest  remaining  for  the  loved  of  God ! 

Bp.  Manx. 


76  THERE  IS  A  TONGUE  IN  EVERY  LEAF. 


THERE  IS  A  TONGUE  IN  EVERY  LEAF 

There  is  a  tongue  in  every  leaf! 

A  voice  in  every  rill ! 
A  voice  that  speaketh  everywhere, 
In  flood  and  fire,  through  earth  and  air ; 

A  tongue  that's  never  still ! 

'Tis  the  Great  Spirit  wide  diffused 

Through  everything  we  see. 
That  with  our  spirits  communeth 
Of  things  mysterious — Life  and  Death, 

Time  and  Eternity. 

I  see  him  in  the  blazing  sun, 

And  in  the  thunder-cloud  ; 
I  hear  Him  in  the  mighty  roar 
That  rusheth  through  the  forests  hoar, 

When  winds  are  raging  loud. 

I  feel  Him  in  the  silent  dews, 

By  grateful  earth  betrayed  ; 
I  feel  Him  in  the  gentle  showers, 
The  soft  south  wind,  the  breath  of  flowers, 

The  sunshine,  and  the  shade. 


A    SUNDAY    THOUGHT. 

I  see  Hira,  hear  Him,  everywhere, 

In  all  things — darkness,  light ; 
Silence,  and  sound  ;  but  most  of  all, 
When  slumber's  dusky  curtains  fall, 
I'  the  silent  hour  of  night. 


A   SUNDAY   THOUGHT. 

How  calm  the  quiet,  sweet  the  rest. 
That  breathes  at  such  a  time  ! 

How  dear  to  every  pious  breast 
The  churcb-bells'  soothing  chime  ! 

A  day  of  prayer,  of  holy  thought, 

And  blessed  peace  it  is ; 
And  did  we  keep  it  as  we  ought, 

A  day  of  sacred  bliss. 

How  welcome  then  of  all  the  seven 
This  day  would  be  allowed ; 

A  foretaste  of  the  joys  of  heaven, 
A  passport  to  our  God. 


Anon. 


Anon. 


78  A     DOMESTIC     SCENE. 


A  DOMESTIC   SCENE. 

'TwAS  early  day — and  sunlight  streamed 

Soft  through  a  quiet  room, 
That  hushed,  but  not  forsaken  seemed — 

Still,  but  with  nought  of  gloom, 
For  then,  secure  in  happy  age, 

Whose  hope  is  from  above, 
A  father  communed  with  the  page 

Of  Heaven's  recorded  love. 

Pure  fell  the  beam  and  meekly  bright, 

On  his  gray  holy  hair. 
And  touched  the  book  with  tenderest  light, 

As  if  its  shrine  were  there ; 
But  oh  !   that  patriarch's  aspect  shone 

With  something  lovelier  far — 
A  radiance,  all  the  Spirits  own, 

Caught  not  from  sun  or  star. 

Some  word  of  life  e'en  then  had  met 

His  calm  benignant  eye, 
Some  ancient  promise,  breathing  yet 

Of  immortality ; 


THE    SABBATH    BELLS.  79 

Some  heart's  deep  language,  when  the  glow 

Of  quenchless  faith  survives, 
For,  every  feature  said — "  I  know 

That  my  Redeemer  lives." 

And  silent  stood  his  children  by, 

Hushing  their  very  breath, 
Before  the  solemn  sanctity 

Of  thought,  o'er-sweeping  death  ; 
Silent — yet  did  not  each  young  breast 

With  love  and  reverence  melt  ? 

Oh  !  blest  be  those  fair  girls — and  blest 

That  home  where  God  is  felt. 

Hemans 


THE   SABBATH   BELLS. 

The  cheerful  Sabbath  bells,  wherever  heard, 

Strike  pleasant  on  the  sense,  most  like  the  voice 

Of  one  who,  from  the  far-off  hills,  proclaims 

Tidings  of  good  to  Zion  :  chiefly  when 

Their  piercing  tones  fall  sudden  on  the  ear 

Of  the  contemplant  solitary  man. 

Whom  thoughts  abstruse  or  high  have  chanced  to  lure. 


80  THE    SABBATH    ON    THE    SEAS. 

Forth  from  the  walks  of  men  revolving  oft, 

And  oft  again,  hard  matter  which  eludes 

And  baffles  his  pursuit, — thought-sick  and  tired 

Of  controversy,  where  no  end  appears, 

No  clue  to  his  research,  the  lonely  man 

Half  wishes  for  society  again. 

Him,  thus  engaged,  the  Sabbath  bells  salute, 

Sudden  !  his  heart  awakes,  his  ears  drink  in 

The  cheering  music  ;  his  relenting  soul 

Yearns  after  all  the  joys  of  social  life, 

And  softens  Avith  the  love  of  human  kind. 

Charles  Lamb. 


THE   SABBATH   ON   THE   SEAS. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  Sabbath  bells 
Ring  out  on  woodlands,  floods,  and  fells ; 
Now  clear  and  jubilant,  anon 
Mellowed  and  mournful  they  chime  on. 
And  sweet  from  church  or  chapel  reared, 
Midst  glens,  to  rural  hearts  endeared, 
Oh,  sweetly,  on  the  morning  air. 
Sounds  the  meek  hymn  ascending  there. 


THE    SABBATH    ON    THE    SEAS.  8 

When  rural  voices  join  to  raise 

An  anthem  to  their  Maker's  praise ! 

And  solemn  and  majestic  floats, 
The  organ-chant  in  rolling  notes, 
Poured  richly  doAvn  the  pillared  aisle 
Of  some  time-hallowed  Gothic  pile. 
When  mingle  then  in  prayer  and  song, 
A  city's  thousand  voices  strong  ; 
Oh,  who  unmoved  can  listen  then 
To  the  responsive  deep  amen  ? 
The  soft  refulo;ent  lio-ht  that  streams 
Through  windows  mapped  with  holiest  themes ; 
The  blazonry  of  cherub  wings. 
Proclaim  Thy  temple.  King  of  kings  ! 
And  marbled  tablets,  sculptured  round, 
Mark  where  the  dead  have  refuge  found. 
Such  are  the  Sabbath-notes  that  rise 
From  earth's  vast  altar  to  the  skies ; 
And  have  the  ocean-waves  no  voice 
To  bid  the  sacred  hours  rejoice  ? 
Have  they,  who  on  the  dangerous  deep 
For  life  an  anxious  vigil  keep, 
11 


82  THE     SABBATH     EVE. 

No  tribute  for  the  Almighty  One, 

Who  rules  them  from  his  viewless  throne  ? 

Hark  !  o'er  the  wide  and  bellowing  main 

Soft  music  comes,  a  choral  strain. 

And,  kneeling  on  the  barrier  frail, 

(How  vain  their  strength  if  that  should  fail !) 

That  lifts  them  from  the  yawning  sea. 

Bold  rugged  men  are  grouped  in  prayer, 
In  childlike  pure  simplicity. 

And,  lo !  their  God  is  with  them  there. 

Godwin. 


THE   SABBATH   EVE. 

Is  there  a  time  when  moments  flow 
More  lovelily  than  all  beside, 

It  is,  of  all  the  times  below, 
A  Sabbath  Eve  in  summer-tide. 

Oh  !  then  the  setting  sun  smiles  fair, 
And  all  below  and  all  above, 

The  different  forms  of  nature,  wear 
One  universal  garb  of  love. 


THE    SABBATH     EVE.  83 

And  then  the  peace  that  Jesus  beams, 
The  life  of  grace,  the  death  of  sin, 

With  nature's  placid  woods  and  streams, 
Is  peace  without,  and  peace  within. 

Delightful  scene — a  world  at  rest, 
A  God  all  love — no  grief,  no  fear, 

A  heavenly  hope — a  peaceful  breast, 
A  smile  unsullied  by  a  tear. 

If  heaven  be  ever  felt  below, 
A  scene  so  heavenly  sure  as  this 

May  cause  a  heart  on  earth  to  know 
Some  foretaste  of  celestial  bliss. 

Delightful  hour — how  soon  will  night 
Spread  her  dark  mantle  o'er  thy  reign, 

And  morrow's  quick  returning  light 
Must  call  us  to  the  world  again. 

Yet  will  there  dawn  at  last  a  day, 
A  sun  that  never  sets  shall  rise ; 

Night  will  not  veil  a  ceaseless  ray !     ^ 
The  heavenly  Sabbath  never  dies  ! 

Anon. 


84  THE    SAILOR    S    EVENING     PRAYER. 


THE   SAILOR'S  EVENING   PRAYER. 

Long  the  sun  hath  gone  to  rest, 
Dimmed  is  now  the  deepening  west ; 
And  the  sky  hath  lost  the  hue 
That  the  rich  clouds  o'er  it  threw : 
Lonely  on  the  pale-blue  sky 
Gleam  faint  streaks  of  crimson  dye, 
Gloriously  the  evening  star 
Looks  upon  us  from  afar  ; 
Aid  us,  o'er  the  changeful  deep, 

God  of  Power ; 
Bless  the  sailor's  ocean-sleep 

At  midnight's  hour. 

On  the  stilly  twilight  air 
We  would  breathe  our  solemn  prayer, — 
"  Bless  the  dear  ones  of  our  home. 
Guide  us  through  the  wild  wave's  foam, 
To  the  light  of  those  dear  eyes, 
Where  our  heart's  best  treasure  lies, 
To  the  love  in  one  fond  breast ; 
That  unchanging  home  of  rest ! 


THE    FIRST    SABBATH.  85 

Hear  her,  when  at  even-tide 

She  kneels  to  pray, 
That  God  would  bless,  defend,  and  guide 

Those  far  away !" 

Now  the  moon  hath  touched  the  sea, 

And  the  waves,  all  tremblingly. 

Throw  towards  heaven  their  silvery  spray, 

Happy  in  the  gladdening  ray  : 

Thus,  Redeemer,  let  thy  love 

Shine  upon  us  from  above  ; 

Touched  by  Thee,  our  hearts  will  rise, 

Grateful  towards  the  glowing  skies ; 

Guard  us,  shield  us,  mighty  Lord, 

Thou  dost  not  sleep  ; 

Still  the  tempest  with  thy  word, — 

Rule  the  deep  ! 

Anon. 


THE    FIRST    SABBATH. 

Six  days  the  heavenly  host,  in  circle  vast, 
Like  that  untouching  cincture  which  enzones 
The  globe  of  Saturn,  compassed  wide  this  orb. 
And  with  the  forming  mass  floated  along. 


86  THE    FIRST    SABBATH. 

In  rapid  course,  through  yet  untravelled  space, 
Beholding  God's  stupendous  power, — a  world 
Bursting  from  chaos  at  the  omnific  will, 
And  perfect  ere  the  sixth  day's  evening  star 
On  Paradise  arose.     Blessed  that  eve ! 
The  Sabbath's  harbinger,  when,  all  complete, 
In  freshest  beauty  from  Jehovah's  hand, 
Creation  bloomed ;  when  Eden's  twilight  face 
Smiled  like  a  sleeping  babe  :  the  voice  divine 
A  holy  calm  breathed  o'er  the  goodly  work : 
Mildly  the  sun  upon  the  loftiest  trees, 
Shed  mellowly  a  sloping  beam.     Peace  reigned, 
And  love,  and  gratitude ;  the  human  pair 
Their  orisons  poured  forth ;  love,  concord,  reigned. 
The  falcon,  perched  upon  the  blooming  bough 
With  Philomela,  listened  to  her  lay ; 
Among  the  antlered  herd,  the  tiger  couched 
Harmless  ;  the  lion's  mane  no  terror  spread 
Among  the  careless  ruminating  flock. 
Silence  was  o'er  the  deep ;  the  noiseless  surge, 
The  last  subsiding  wave, — of  that  dread  tumult 
Which  raged,  when  Ocean,  at  the  mute  command, 
Rushed  furiously  into  his  new-cleft  bed, — 
Was  gently  rippling  on  the  pebbled  shore ; 


THE    FIRST    SABBATH.  87 

While,  on  the  swell,  the  sea-bird  with  her  head 
Wing-veiled,  slept  tranquilly.     The  host  of  heaven, 
Entranced  in  new  delight,  speechless  adored ; 
Nor   stopped  their  fleet  career,   nor  changed  their 

form 
Encircular,  till  on  that  hemisphere, — 
In  which  the  blissful  garden  sweet  exhaled 
Its  incense,  odorous  clouds, — the  Sabbath  dawn 
Arose ;  then  wide  the  flying  circle  oped, 
And  soared,  in  semblance  of  a  mighty  rainbow. 
Silent  ascend  the  choirs  of  Seraphim ; 
No  harp  resounds,  mute  is  each  voice ;  the  burst 
Of  joy  and  praise,  reluctant  they  repress, — 
For  love  and  concord  all  things  so  attuned 
To  harmony,  that  Earth  must  have  received 
The  grand  vibration,  and  to  the  centre  shook : 
But  soon  as  to  the  starry  altitudes 
They  reached,  then  what  a  storm  of  sound,  tremen- 
dous, 
Swelled  through  the  realms  of  space  !    The  morning 

stars 
Together  sang,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
Shouted  for  joy  !  Loud  was  the  peal ;  so  loud 
As  would  have  quite  o'erwhelmed  human  sense ; 


88  A    WINTER     SABBATH     AY  A  L  K. 

But  to  the  earth  it  came  a  gentle  strain, 
Like  softest  fall  breathed  from  iEolian  lute, 
When  'mid  the  cords  the  evening  gale  expires. 
Day  of  the  Lord  !  creation's  hallowed  close  ! 
Day  of  the  Lord  !  (prophetical  they  sang) 
Benignant  mitigation  of  that  doom, 
Which  must,  ere  long,  consign  the  fallen  race, 
Dwellers  in  yonder  star,  to  toil  and  woe  ! 

Grahame, 


A  WINTER  SABBATH   WALK. 

HoAV  dazzling  white  the  snowy  scene !  deep,  deep, 
The  stillness  of  the  winter  Sabbath  day, — 
Not  even  a  footfall  heard.     Smooth  are  the  fields, 
Each  hollow  pathway  level  with  the  plain : 
Hid  are  the  bushes,  save  that,  here  and  there, 
Are  seen  the  topmost  shoots  of  brier  or  broom. 
High-ridged,  the  whirled  drift  has  almost  reached 
The  powdered  keystone  of  the  churchyard  porch. 
Mute  hangs  the  hooded  bell ;  the  tombs  lie  buried  ; 
No  step  approaches  to  the  house  of  prayer, 

The  flickering  fall  is  o'er ;  the  clouds  disperse. 
And  show  the  sun,  hung  o'er  the  welkin's  verge, 


A  WINTER  SABBATH  WALK.        89 

Shooting  a  bright  but  ineffectual  beam 
On  all  the  sparkling  waste.     Now  is  the  time 
To  visit  nature  in  her  grand  attire ; 
Though  perilous  the  mountainous  ascent, 
A  noble  recompense  the  danger  brings. 
How  beautiful  the  plain  stretched  far  below ! 
Unvaried  though  it  be,  save  by  yon  stream 
With  azure  windings,  or  the  leafless  wood. 
But  what  the  beauty  of  the  plain,  compared 
To  that  sublimity  which  reigns  enthroned, 
Holding  joint  rule  with  solitude  divine. 
Among  yon  rocky  fells,  that  bid  defiance 
To  steps  the  most  adventurously  bold  ! 
There  silence  dwells  profound ;  or  if  the  cry 
Of  high-poised  eagle  break  at  times  the  calm, 
The  mantled  echoes  no  response  return. 

But  let  me  now  explore  the  deep-sunk  dell. 
No  footprint,  save  the  covey's  or  the  flock's. 
Is  seen  along  the  rill,  where  marshy  springs 
Still  rear  the  grassy  blade  of  vivid  green. 
Beware,  ye  shepherds,  of  these  treacherous  haunts, 
Nor  linger  there  too  long  :  the  wintry  day 
Soon  closes  ;  and  full  oft  a  heavier  fall, 

12 


90       A  WINTER  SABBATU  WALK. 

Heaped  by  the  blast,  fills  up  the  sheltered  glen, 

While,  gurgling  deep  helow,  the  buried  rill 

Mines  for  itself  a  snow-coved  way.     Oh  !  then, 

Your  helpless  charge  drive  from  the  tempting  spot, 

And  keep  them  on  the  bleak  hill's  stormy  side, 

Where  night- winds  sweep  the  gathering  drift  away : 

So  the  great  Shepherd  leads  the  heavenly  flock 

From  faithless  pleasures,  full  into  the  storms 

Of  life,  where  long  they  bear  the  bitter  blast, 

Until  at  length  the  vernal  sun  looks  forth, 

Bedimmed  with  showers  :  then  to  the  pastures  green 

He  brings  them,  where  the  quiet  waters  glide, 

The  streams  of  life,  the  Siloah  of  the  soul. 

Grahame. 


The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood ; 

The  morning  sharp  and  clear.     But  now  at  noon, 

Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills, 

And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 

The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage, 

And  has  the  warmth  of  May.     The  vault  is  blue 

Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 

The  dazzling  splendor  of  the  scene  below. 


A  WINTER  SABBATH  WALK.        91 

Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale  ; 

And  through  the  trees  I  view  the  embattled  tower, 

Whence  all  the  music.     I  again  perceive 

The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 

And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 

The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms. 

Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 

The  roof,  though  movable  through  all  its  length 

As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufiiced. 

And,  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 

The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me. 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought 

The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 

With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  suppressed ; 

Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 

From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes 

From  many  a  twig  the  pendent  drops  of  ice. 

That  tinkle  in  the  withered  leaves  below. 

Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft. 

Charms  more  than  silence. 

COWPER. 


92  EARLY    RISING    AND    PRAYER. 


EARLY   RISING   AND  PRAYER. 

When  first  tliy  eyes  unveil,  give  thy  soul  leave 
To  do  the  like ;  our  bodies  but  forerun 

The  spirit's  duty ;  true  hearts  spread  and  heave 
Unto  their  God,  as  flowers  do  to  the  sun : 

Give    Him   thy   first   thoughts   then,  so   shalt   thou 
keep 

Him  company  all  day,  and  in  Him  sleep. 

Yet  never  sleep  the  sun  up ;  prayer  should 
Dawn  with  the  day :  these  are  set  awful  hours 

'Twixt  heaven  and  us ;  the  manna  was  not  good 
After  sunrising  ;  for  day  sullies  flowers  : 

Rise  to  prevent  the  sun ;  sleep  doth  sins  glut, 

And  heaven's  gates  open  when  the  world  is  shut. 

Walk  with  thy  fellow-creatures ;  note  the  hush 
And  whisperings  amongst  them.     Not  a  spring 

Or  leaf  but  hath  his  morning  hymn  ;  each  bush 
And  oak  doth  know  I  AM! — Canst  thou  not  sing? 

Oh  !  leave  thy  cares  and  follies  !  go  this  way, 

And  thou  art  sure  to  prosper  all  the  day. 


EARLY    RISING    AND    PRAYER.  93 

Serve  God  before  the  world ;  let  Him  not  go 
Until  thou  hast  a  blessing ;  then  resign 

The  whole  unto  Him,  and  remember  who 

Prevailed  bj  wrestling  ere  the  sun  did  shine: 

Pour  oil  upon  the  stones,  seek  sin  forgiven, 

Then  journey  on,  and  have  an  eye  to  heaven. 

Mornings  are  mysteries :  the  first  world's  youth, 
Man's  resurrection,  and  the  future's  bud. 

Shroud  in  their  births  ;  the  crown  of  life,  light,  truth, 
Is  styled  their  star ;  the  stone  and  hidden  food : 

Three  blessings  wait  upon  them,  one  of  which 

Should  move — they  make  us  holy,  happy,  rich. 

When  the  world's  up,  and  every  swarm  abroad. 
Keep  well  thy  temper,  mix  not  with  each  clay ; 

Despatch  necessities  ;  life  hath  a  load 

Which  must  be  carried  on,  and  safely  may : 

Yet  keep  those  cares  without  thee  ;  let  the  heart 

Be  God's  alone,  and  choose  the  better  part. 

Vaughan. 


94  THE    SABBATH. 


THE    SABBATH. 


It  is  not  only  in  the  sacred  fane 

That  homage  should  be  paid  to  the  Most  High ; 

There  is  a  temple,  one  not  made  with  hands, — 

The  vaulted  firmament :  far  in  the  woods, 

Almost  beyond  the  sound  of  city-chime, 

At  intervals  heard  through  the  breezeless  air ; 

When  not  the  limberest  leaf  is  seen  to  move, 

Save  where  the  linnet  lights  upon  the  spray ; 

When  not  a  floweret  bends  its  little  stalk. 

Save  where  the  bee  alights  upon  the  bloom ; — 

There,  rapt  in  gratitude,  in  joy,  and  love. 

The  man  of  God  will  pass  the  Sabbath  noon ; 

Silence  his  praise  :  his  disembodied  thoughts, 

Loosed  from  the  load  of  words,  will  high  ascend 

Beyond  the  empyrean.— 

Nor  yet  less  pleasing  at  the  heavenly  throne. 

The  Sabbath  service  of  the  shepherd  boy. 

In  some  lone  glen,  where  every  sound  is  lulled 

To  slumber,  save  the  tinkling  of  the  rill. 

Or  bleat  of  lamb,  or  hovering  falcon's  cry. 

Stretched  on.  the  sward,  he  reads  of  Jesse's  son  ; 


THE    BEAUTIES    OF    NATURE.  95 

Or  sheds  a  tear  o'er  him  to  Egypt  sold, 

And  wonders  why  he  weeps :  the  volume  closed, 

With  thyme-sprig  laid  between  the  leaves,  he  sings 

The  sacred  lays,  his  weekly  lesson,  conned 

With  meikle  care  beneath  the  lowly  roof 

Where  humble  lore  is  learnt,  where  humble  worth 

Pines  unrewarded  by  a  thankless  state. 

Thus  reading,  hymning,  all  alone,  unseen, 

The  shepherd  boy  the  Sabbath  holy  keeps. 

Till  on  the  heights  he  marks  the  straggling  bands 

Returning  homeward  from  the  house  of  prayer. 

In  peace  they  home  resort.     0  blissful  days  ! 

When  all  men  worship  God  as  conscience  wills. 

Grahamk. 


THE  BEAUTIES   OF  NATURE. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning  ; — all  was  calm, 
As  if  creation,  thankful  for  repose, 

In  renovated  beauty,  breathing  balm 

And  blessedness  around,  from  slumber  rose, 
Joyful  once  more  to  see  the  East  unclose 

Its  gates  of  glory  : — yet  subdued  and  mild, 
Like  the  soft  smile  of  patience  amid  woes 


96  THE    BEAUTIES     OF    NATURE. 

By  hope  and  resignation  reconciled, 
That  morning's  beauty  shone,  that  landscape's  charm 
beguiled. 

The  heavens  were  marked  by  many  a  filmy  streak 

Even  in  the  orient ;  and  the  sun  shone  through 
Those  lines,  as  Hope  upon  a  mourner's  cheek 

Sheds,  meekly  chastened,  her  delightful  hue. 

From   groves    and    meadows,    all   impearled  with 
dew. 
Rose  silvery  mists, — no  eddying  winds  swept  by, — 

The  cottage  chimneys,  half  concealed  from  view  . 
By  their  embowering  foliage,  sent  on  high 
Their  pallid  wreaths  of  smoke  unruffled  to  the  sky. 

And  every  gentle  sound  which  broke  the  hush 
Of  morning's  still  serenity  was  sweet : 

The  skylark  overhead ;  the  speckled  thrush, 
Who  now  had  taken  with  delight  his  seat 
Upon  the  slender  larch,  the  day  to  greet ; 

The  starling  chattering  to  her  callow  young ; 
And  that  monotonous  lay,  which  seems  to  fleet 

Like  echo  through  the  air,  the  cuckoo's  song, 

Was  heard  at  times,  far  off,  the  leafy  woods  among. 


THE    covenantees'    SABBATH.  97 

Surrounded  by  such  sights  and  sounds,  I  stood 

Delighted  auditor,  spectator  here  ; 
And  gave  full  scope,  in  meditative  mood, 

To  thoughts  excited  by  a  scene  so  fair ; 

Feeling  renewedly  how  matchless  are 
The  power  and  goodness  of  that  Great  Supreme 

Who  formed  and  fashioned  all  things  to  declare 
Even  to  those  who  lightly  of  Him  deem, 
The  beauty  and  the  love  of  his  creative  scheme. 

Barton. 


THE   COVENANTER'S   SABBATH. 

'TwAS  Sabbath  morn,  a  lovelier  never  rose. 

And  nature  seemed  in  holy,  calm  repose  ; 

No  cloud  was  seen  along  the  azure  sky, 

And  the  pure  streamlet  glided  softly  by ; 

From  tree  to  tree  the  warbling  minstrels  sung. 

And    heaven's    bright    arch    with    nature's    praises 

rung; 
Though  all  was  still,  yet  persecution's  rage. 
With  awful  fury  scourged  a  bleeding  age  ; 
Then  Scotland  groaned  beneath  a  tyrant's  yoke, 
Till  her  proud  spirit  seemed  for  ever  broke  ; 
18 


98       THE  COVENANTERS   SABBATH. 

Her  sons  were  hunted  from  the  abodes  of  men, 
To  savage  wilds,  or  some  sequestered  glen : 
Justice  stood  mute,  for  demons  gave  the  law, 
And  many  a  bloody  scene  her  mountains  saw. 

What  though  this  morning  rose  so  calmly  bright. 
The  eye  which  saw  it  trembled  at  its  light ; 
On  Loudon's  braes  the  bird  might  find  a  nest ; 
On  Pentland's  hills  the  wounded  deer  might  rest ; 
But  terror  there  her  gloomy  watch  did  keep, 
Like  the  death-storm  which  overhangs  the  deep ; 
And  homeless  man  from  place  to  place  was  driven. 
Bereft  of  hope,  and  every  stay  but  heaven. 
No  gladsome  bell  announced  the  Sabbath  day, 
The  solemn  temples  mouldered  with  decay ; 
God's  people  met,  amidst  the  lonely  wild, 
Like  wretched  outcasts  from  a  world  exiled  ; 
In  a  lone  cave,  the  eagle's  drear  abode. 
They  met  to  worship  and  to  praise  their  God ; 
The  fretted  rocks  around  their  temple  hung, 
And  echoed  back  the  praises  as  they  sung ; 
Though  half  suppressed  the  thrilling  accents  rise, 
To  God  who  hears  and  answers  in  the  skies ; 
The  preacher  rose,  and  every  voice  grew  still. 
Save  echoing  breezes  round  the  lonely  hill ; 


THE    COVENANTERS      SABBATH.  99 

With  solemn  awe  he  opes  the  blessed  Book, 
Earnest  in  voice,  and  heavenly  in  his  look  ; 
While  from  his  lips  the  soothing  accents  flow, 
To  cheer  his  flock  and  mitigate  their  woe ; 
For  who  could  tell  how  soon  the  sentinel's  breath 
Might  give  the  signal  of  approaching  death ; 
For  every  moment  seemed  to  them  the  last, 
And  days  to  come,  more  gloomy  than  the  past. 

Within  that  place,  the  sacramental  board 
Was  spread  in  memory  of  their  risen  Lord, 
While  the  deep  thunder  rent  the  thick 'ning  cloud 
And  lightning  flashed  along  the  mournful  crowd ; 
And  when  with  lowly  hands  the  bread  was  broke, 
The  sheeted  flame  fell  on  the  living  rock ; 
Illumed  the  table  with  its  symbols  spread, 
As  if  heaven's  brightness  rested  on  their  head. 
With  placid  looks  they  saw  the  darkening  cloud, 
Which  hid  Jehovah  in  his  awful  shroud ; 
And  when  the  voice  fell  deafening  on  the  ear. 
No  murmuring  word  proclaim  them  men  of  fear, 
But  calm   and   sweet    the   heaven-tuned  "Martyrs" 

rose 
Like  zephyrs  sighing  at  the  tempest's  close. 


100  THE    covenanters'    SABEATH. 

Near  to  this  place  where  mountain  torrents  flow 
Through  broken  rocks,  to  calmer  scenes  below, 
How  oft  was  heard  the  tender  infant's  sigh, 
Its  name  pronounced  midst  breezes  passing  by ; 
While  all  unconscious  of  the  holy  rite, 
It  smiled  amidst  the  dangers  of  the  night. 

In    caves   and    glens    their    Sabbath    hours    were 

spent, 
Till  the  pale  moon  illumed  the  firmament ; 
And  there  they  wandered  at  the  dead  of  night, 
When  the  dim  stars  Avithheld  their  glimmering  light ; 
And,  oh,  how  oft  their  wild  retreat's  been  found 
By  those  who    sought   them  like  the  blood-trained 

hound. 
And  made  that  place,  their  oft  frequented  cave, 
The  holy  martyr's  solitary  grave ; 
When    nought   but   winds   their    dreary  death-knell 

rung. 
And  the  scared  bird  their  mournful  requiem  sung ! 
Yet  heaven  wept,  and  bade  their  spirits  rise 
On  angel  wings,  from  sorrow  to  the  skies ; 
While  all  they  suffered  shall  be  ne'er  forgot, 
Their  grave  be  hallowed,  and  their  dying  spot ; 


A    SABBATH     MEDITATION.  101 

For  they  to  Scotland  gave  her  church,  her  laws, 
And  fell  like  patriots  in  their  country's  cause. 

Peace  to  their  memory !  let  no  impious  breath 
Soil  their  fair  fame,  or  triumph  o'er  their  death  ; 
Let  Scotia's  grateful  sons  their  tear-drops  shed, 
Where  low  they  lie  in  honor's  gory  bed ; 
Kich  with  the  spoils  their  glorious  deeds  had  won. 
And  purchased  freedom  to  a  land  undone ; 
A  land  which  owes  its  glory  and  its  worth 
To  those  whom  tyrants  banished  from  the  earth. 

Weiu 


A   SABBATH    MEDITATION. 

With  silent  awe  I  hail  the  sacred  morn, 

That  slowly  wakes  while  all  the  fields  are  still ; 

A  soothing  calm  on  every  breeze  is  borne, 
A  graver  murmur  gurgles  from  the  rill, 
And  echo  answers  softer  from  the  hill, 

And  softer  sings  the  linnet  from  the  thorn  ; 
The  skylark  warbles  in  a  tone  less  shrill. 

Hail,  light  serene  !  hail,  sacred  Sabbath  morn  ! 
The  rooks  float  silently,  in  airy  drove  ; 


102  SABBATH     EVENING. 

The  sun  a  placid  yellow  lustre  throws ; 

The  gales,  that  lately  sighed  along  the  grove, 
Have  hushed  their  downy  wings  in  dead  repose ; 

The  hovering  rack  of  clouds  forgets  to  move  : — 
So  smiled  the  day  when  the  first  morn  arose. 

Leyden. 


SABBATH    EVENING. 

Another  day  has  passed  along, 
And  we  are  nearer  to  the  tomb ! 

Nearer  to  join  the  heavenly  song, 
Or  hear  the  last  eternal  doom. 

These  moments  of  departing  day, 

When  thought  is  calm,  and  labors  cease, 

Are  surely  solemn  times  to  pray, 
To  ask  for  pardon  and  for  peace. 

Thou  God  of  mercy,  swift  to  hear. 
More  swift  than  man  to  tell  his  need ; 

Be  Thou  to  us  this  evening  near. 
And  to  Thy  fount  our  spirits  lead. 

Teach  us  to  pray — and,  having  taught, 
Grant  us  the  blessings  that  we  crave ; 


SABBATH     EVENING.  103 

Without  Thy  teaching — prayer  is  nought ; 
But  with  it — powerful  to  save  ! 

Sweet  is  the  light  of  Sabhath  Eve, 
And  soft  the  sunbeam  lingering  there ; 

Those  sacred  hours  this  low  earth  leave, 
Wafted  on  wings  of  praise  and  prayer. 

This  time,  how  lovely  and  how  still ! 

Peace  shines,  and  smiles  on  all  below ; 
The  plain,  the  stream,  the  wood,  the  hill. 

All  fair  with  evening's  setting  glow  ! 

Season  of  Rest !  the  tranquil  soul 

Feels  thy  sweet  calm,  and  melts  in  love : 

And  while  these  sacred  moments  roll, 
Faith  sees  a  smiling  heaven  above. 

How  short  the  time,  how  soon  the  sun 
Sets  !  and  dark  night  resumes  her  reign  ! 

And  soon  the  hours  of  rest  are  done, 
Then  morrow  brings  the  world  again. 

Yet  will  our  journey  not  be  long. 

Our  pilgrimage  will  soon  be  trod  ; 
And  we  shall  join  the  ceaseless  song. 

The  endless  Sabbath  of  our  God. 

Edmeston. 


104  SABBATH    WALKS. 


SABBATH  WALKS. 

Upon  the  Sabbath,  sweet  it  is  to  walk 
'Neath  woodside  shelter  of  oak's  spreading  tree, 
Or  by  a  hedge-row  track,  or  padded  balk  ; 
Or  stretch  'ncath  willows  on  the  meadow  lea, 
List'ning,  delighted,  hum  of  passing  bee. 
And  curious  pausing  on  the  blossom's  head ; 

And  mark  the  spider  at  his  labor  free, 
Spinning  from  bent  to  bent  his  silken  thread ; 

And  lab'ring  ants,  by  careful  nature  led 
To  make  the  most  of  summer's  plenteous  stay ; 

And  lady-cow,  beneath  its  leafy  shed, 
Called,  when  I  mixed  with  children,  "  clock-a-clay," 

Pruning  its  red  wings  on  its  pleasing  bed. 
Glad  like  myself  to  shun  the  heat  of  day. 

Clake. 


SABBATH    WALKS.  105 


How  sweet  the  tuneful  bells'  responsive  peal ! 
As  when,  at  opening  morn,  the  fragrant  breeze 
Breathes  on  the  trembling  sense  of  wan  disease, 
So  piercing  to  my  heart  their  force  I  feel ! 
And  hark  !  with  lessening  cadence  now  they  fall, 
And  now,  along  the  white  and  level  tide. 
They  fling  their  melancholy  music  wide ; 
Bidding  me  many  a  tender  thought  recall 
Of  summer  days,  and  those  delightful  years 
When  by  my  native  streams,  in  life's  fair  prime, 
The  mournful  magic  of  their  mingling  chime 
First  waked  my  wondering  childhood  into  tears ! 
But  seeming  now,  when  all  those  days  are  o'er, 
The  sounds  of  joy  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more. 

Bowles. 


106  WAR. 

Of  all  the  murderous  trades  by  mortals  plied, 

'Tis  War  alone  that  never  violates 

The  hallowed  day  by  simulate  respect, — 

By  hypocritic  rest :  No,  no,  the  work  proceeds, 

From  sacred  pinnacles  are  hung  the  flags, 

That  give  the  sign  to  slip  the  leash  from  slaughter. 

The  bells,  whose  knoll  a  holy  calmness  poured 

Into  the  good  man's  breast, — whose  sound  solaced 

The  sick,  the  poor,  the  old — perversion  dire — 

Pealing  with  sulphurous  tongue,  speak  death-fraught 

words : 
From  morn  to  eve  Destruction  revels  frenzied. 
Till  at  the  hour  when  peaceful  vesper-chimes 
Were  wont  to  soothe  the  ear,  the  trumpet  sounds 
Pursuit  and  flight  altern  ;  and  for  the  song 
Of  larks,  descending  to  their  grass-bowered  homes, 
The  croak  of  flesh-gorged  ravens,  as  they  slake 
Their  thirst  in  hoof-prints  filled  with  gore,  disturbs 
The  stupor  of  the  dying  man ;  while  Death 
Triumphantly  sails  down  the  ensanguined  stream, 
On    corses    throned,    and    crowned    with    shivered 

boughs. 
That  erst  hung  imaged  in  the  crystal  tide. 

Gbahame. 


SUNDAYS.  107 


SUNDAYS. 


Bright  shadows  of  true  rest !  some  shoots  of  bliss  ! 

Heaven  once  a  week  ; 
The  next  world's  gladness  prepossessed  in  this ; 

A  day  to  seek 
Eternity  in  time  ;  the  steps  by  which 

We  climb  above  all  ages ;  lamps  that  light 
Man  through  his  heap  of  dark  days  ;  and  the  rich 
And  full  redemption  of  the  whole  week's  flight : 
The  pulleys  unto  headlong  man  ;  time's  bower  ; 

The  narrow  way ; 
Transplanted  paradise  ;  God's  walking  hour  ; 

The  cool  o'  the  day ; 
The  creature's  jubilee  ;  God's  parle  with  dust; 
Heaven  here  ;    man  on  those  hills  of  myrrh,  of 
flowers ; 
Angels  descending  ;  the  returns  of  trust ; 

A  gleam  of  glory  after  six  days'  showers  ; 
The  Church's  love-feasts  :  time's  prerogative 

And  interest 
Deducted  from  the  whole  ;  the  combs  and  hive, 
And  home  of  rest ; 


108  THE    SABBATH. 

The  Milky  Way  chalked  out  with  suns ;  a  clue 
That   guides   throngh   erring   hours,  and   in   full 
story ; 
A  taste  of  heaven  on  earth ;  the  pledge  and  cue 
Of  a  full  feast,  and  the  out-courts  of  glory. 

Vaughan. 


THE    SABBATH. 

Lord  of  the  Sabbath  and  its  light ! 

I  hail  Thy  hallowed  day  of  rest ; 
It  is  my  weary  soul's  delight, 

The  solace  of  my  care-worn  breast. 

Its  dewy  morn — its  glowing  noon — 
Its  tranquil  eve — its  solemn  night — 

Pass  sweetly  ;  but  they  pass  too  soon, 
And  leave  me  saddened  at  their  flight. 

Yet  sweetly  as  they  glide  along. 

And  hallowed  though  the  calm  they  yield ; 
Transporting  though  their  rapt'rous  song, 

And  heav'nly  visions  seem  revealed : 


AN    EVENINa    HYMN.  109 

My  soul  is  desolate  and  drear, 

My  silent  harp  untuned  remains, 
Unless,  my  Saviour,  Thou  art  near. 

To  heal  my  wounds  and  soothe  my  pains. 

0  ever,  ever  let  me  hail 

Thy  presence  with  Thy  day  of  rest ! 

Then  will  Thy  servant  never  fail 

To  deem  Thy  Sabbaths  doubly  blest. 

East. 


AN   EVENING   HYMN. 

How  many  days,  with  mute  adieu. 

Have  gone  down  yon  untrodden  sky  ! 
And  still  it  looks  as  clear  and  blue 

As  when  it  first  was  hung  on  high. 
The  rolling  sun,  the  frowning  cloud 

That  drew  the  lightning  in  its  rear, 
The  thunder,  tramping  deep  and  loud, 

Have  left  no  footmark  there. 

The  village  bells,  with  silver  chime. 
Come  softened  by  the  distant  shore ; 


110  AN    EVENING    HYMN. 

Though  I  have  heard  them  many  a  time, 
They  never  rung  so  sweet  before. 

A  silence  rests  upon  the  hill, 

A  listening  awe  pervades  the  air : 

The  very  flowers  are  shut,  and  still, 
And  bowed  as  if  in  prayer. 

And  in  this  hushed  and  breathless  close, 

O'er  earth,  and  air,  and  sky,  and  sea, 
That  still  low  voice  in  silence  goes, 

Which  speaks  alone,  great  God  !  of  Thee. 
The  whispering  leaves,  the  far-oflF  brook, 

The  linnet's  warble  fainter  grown, 
The  hive-bound  bee,  the  lonely  rook, — 

All  these  their  Maker  own. 

Now  shine  the  starry  hosts  of  light, 

Gazing  on  earth  with  golden  eyes  ; 
Bright  guardians  of  the  blue-broAved  night ! 

What  are  ye  in  your  native  skies  ? 
I  know  not !  neither  can  I  know. 

Nor  on  what  leader  ye  attend, 
Nor  whence  ye  came,  nor  whither  go. 

Nor  what  your  aim  or  end. 


AN    EVENING    HYMN.  Ill 

I  know  they  must  be  holy  things 

That  from  a  roof  so  sacred  shine, 
Where  sounds  the  beat  of  angel-wings, 

And  footsteps  echo  all  Divine. 
Their  mysteries  I  never  sought, 

Nor  hearkened  to  what  Science  tells, 
For  oh  !  in  childhood  I  was  taught 

That  God  amidst  them  dwells. 

The  darkening  woods,  the  fading  trees, 

The  grasshopper's  last  feeble  sound. 
The  flowers  just  wakened  by  the  breeze. 

All  leave  the  stillness  more  profound. 
The  twilight  takes  a  deeper  shade. 

The  dusky  pathways  blacker  grow, 
And  silence  reigns  in  glen  and  glade, — 

All,  all  is  mute  below. 

And  other  eves  as  sweet  as  this 

Will  close  upon  as  calm  a  day. 
And,  sinking  down  the  deep  abyss. 

Will,  like  the  last,  be  swept  away ; 
Until  eternity  is  gained. 

That  boundless  sea  without  a  shore. 


112  AN    EVENING    HYMN. 

That  "Without  time  for  ever  reigned, 
And  will  Avhen  time's  no  more. 

Now  nature  sinks  in  soft  repose, 
A  living  semblance  of  the  grave  ; 

The  dew  steals  noiseless  on  the  rose. 

The  boughs  have  almost  ceased  to  wave ; 

The  silent  sky,  the  sleeping  earth. 

Tree,  mountain,  stream,  the  humble  sod, 

All  tell  from  whom  they  had  their  birth. 

And  cry,  "  Behold  a  God  !" 

Thomas  Miller. 


TIIETIME    FOR    PRAYER.  113 


THE   TIME   FOR  PRAYER. 

When  is  the  time  for  prayer  ? — 
With  the  first  beams  that  light  the  morning  sky, 
Ere  for  the  toils  of  day  thou  dost  prepare, 

Lift  up  thy  thoughts  on  high ; 
Commend  thy  loved  ones  to  His  watchful  care ! — 

Morn  is  the  time  for  prayer ! 

And  in  the  noontide  hour, 
If  worn  by  toil  or  by  sad  cares  opprest. 
Then  unto  God  thy  spirit's  sorrow  pour, 

And  He  will  give  thee  rest : — 
Thy  voice  shall  reach  Him  through  the  fields  of  air 

Noon  is  the  time  for  prayer ! 

When  the  bright  sun  hath  set, — 
Whilst  yet  eve's  glowing  colors  deck  the  skies ; — 
When  with  the  loved,  at  home,  again  thou'st  met. 

Then  let  thy  prayer  arise 
For  those  who  in  thy  joys  and  sorrows  share  ; — 

Eve  is  the  time  for  prayer ! 
15 


114  SOCIAL    WOUSH  IP. 

And  when  the  stars  come  forth, — 
When  to  the  trusting  heart  sweet  hopes  are  given, 
And  the  deep  stiUness  of  the  hour  gives  birth 

To  pure  bright  dreams  of  heaven, — 
Kneel  to  thy  God  ;  ask  strength,  life's  ills  to  bear  : 

Night  is  the  time  for  prayer ! 

When  is  the  time  for  prayer  ? 
In  every  hour,  while  life  is  spared  to  thee — 
In  crowds  or  solitude — in  joy  or  care — 

Thy  thoughts  should  heavenward  flee. 

At  home — at  morn  and  eve — with  loved  ones  there, 

Bend  thou  the  knee  in  prayer  ! 

Anon. 


SOCIAL   WORSHIP. 


There  is  a  joy,  which  angels  well  may  prize: 
To  see,  and  hear,  and  aid  God's  worship,  when 
Unnumbered  tongues,  a  host  of  Christian  men. 

Youths,  matrons,  maidens,  join.     Their  sounds  arise, 

"  Like  many  waters;"  now  glad  symphonies 
Of  thanks  and  glory  to  our  God ;  and  then, 
Seal  of  the  social  prayer,  the  loud  Amen, 

Faith's  common  pledge,  contrition's  mingled  cries. 


THE    CURFEW    BELL.  115 

Thus    when   the    Church    of    Christ   was   hale    and 
young, 
She  called  on  God,  one  spirit  and  one  voice ; 
Thus    from    corruption    cleansed,    with    health   new 
strung, 
Her  sons  she  nurtured.     Oh  !  be  theirs,  by  choice, 
What  duty  bids,  to  worship,  heart  and  tongue  ; 
At  once  to  pray,  at  once  in  God  rejoice  ! 

Bp.  Mant. 


THE    CURFEW    BELL. 

I. 
Solemnly,  mournfully, 

Dealing  its  dole. 
The  curfew  bell 

Is  beginning  to  toll : 

Cover  the  embers, 

And  put  out  the  light ; 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 
And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows. 
And  quenched  is  the  fire  ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence, — 
All  footsteps  retire. 


11.6  THE    CURFEAV    BELL. 

No  voice  in  the  chambers, 

No  sound  in  the  hall ; 
Sleep  and  oblivion 

Reign  over  all ! 

II. 
The  book  is  completed, 

And,  closed,  like  the  day ; 
And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 

Lays  it  away. 

Dim  grow  its  fancies  ; 

Forgotten  they  lie ; 
Like  coals  in  the  ashes. 

They  darken  and  die. 

Song  sinks  into  silence, 

The  story  is  told. 
The  windows  are  darkened. 

The  hearthstone  is  cold. 

Darker  and  darker 

The  black  shadows  fall; 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all. 

LONGFEJLLOW, 


THE    SABBATH.  117 


THE   SABBATH. 

On  the  seventh  clay  reposing,  lo  !  the  great  Creator 

stood, 
Saw  the  glorious  work  accomplished, — saw  and  felt 

that  it  was  good  ; 
Heaven,  earth,  man  and  beast  have  being,  day  and 

night  their  courses  run, — 
First  creation, — infant  manhood, — earliest  Sabbath, 

— it  is  done. 

On    the    seventh    day    reposing,    Jesus    filled    his 

sainted  tomb. 
From   his   spirit's    toil   retreating,   while   he    broke 

man's  fatal  doom ; 
'Twas  a  new  creation   bursting,  brighter  than  the 

primal  one, — 

'Tis  fulfilment, — reconcilement, — 'tis  redemption, — 

it  is  done. 

Da  Costa. 


.118  EVENING    PRAYER. 


EVENING  PRAYER  AT  A  GIRL'S  SCHOOL. 

"  Now  in  thy  youth,  beseech  of  Him, 
Who  giveth,  upbraiding  not ; 
That  his  light  in  thy  heart  become  not  dim, 

And  his  love  be  unforgot ; 
And  thy  God,  in  the  darkest  of  days,  will  be. 
Greenness,  and  beauty,  and  strength  to  thee." 

Bernard  Barton. 

Hush  !  'tis  a  holy  hour — the  quiet  room 

Seems  like  a  temple,  while  yon  soft  lamp  sheds 
A  faint  and  starry  radiance,  through  "the  gloom 
And    the    sweet    stillness,    down    on   fair   young 
heads, 
With  all  their  clustering  locks,  untouched  by  care, 
And    bowed,  as   flowers    are   bowed  with    night,  in 
prayer. 

Gaze  on — 'tis  lovely  ! — Childhood's  lip  and  check, 
Mantling  beneath  its  earnest  brow  of  thought — 

Gaze — yet  what  secst  thou  in  those  fair,  and  meek, 
And  fragile  things,  as  but  for  sunshine  wrought  ? 

Thou  seest  what  grief  must  nurture  for  the  sky, 

What  death  must  fashion  for  eternity ! 


EVENING    PRAYER.  119 

0  !  joyous  creature  !  that  will  sink  to  rest ! 

Lightly  when  those  pure  orisons  are  done, 
As  birds  with  slumber's  honey-dew  opprest, 

'Midst  the  dim  folded  leaves,  at  set  of  sun — 
Lift  up  your  hearts !  though  yet  no  sorrow  lies 
Dark  in  the  summer-heaven  of  those  clear  eyes. 

Though   fresh   within   your    breasts    th'   untroubled 
springs 

Of  hope  make  melody  where'er  ye  tread, 
And  o'er  your  sleep  bright  shadows,  from  the  wings 

Of  spirits  visiting  but  youth,  be  spread ; 
Yet  in  those  flute-like  voices,  mingling  low. 
Is  woman's  tenderness — how  soon  her  woe  ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you — silent  tears  to  weep 

And  patient    smiles    to  wear    through    suff"ering's 
hour, 
And  sumless  riches,  from  affection's  deep. 

To  pour  on  broken  reeds — a  wasted  shower ! 
And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  them  clay, 
And  to  bewail  that  worship — therefore  pray  ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you — to  be  found  untired. 
Watching  the  stars  out  by  the  bed  of  pain, 


120  THE    GERMAN    NIGHT-WATCHMAN. 

With  a  pale  clieek,  and  yet  a  brow  inspired, 

And  a  true  heart  of  hope,  though  hope  be  vain ; 
Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer  decay. 
And  oh  !  to  love  through  all  things — therefore  pray ! 

And  take  the  thought  of  this  calm  vesper  time, 
With  its  low  murmuring  sounds  and  silvery  light, 

On  through  the  dark  days  fading  from  their  prime, 
As  a  sweet  dew  to  keep  your  souls  from  blight ! 

Earth  will  forsake — 0  !  happy  to  have  given 

Th'  unbroken  heart's  first  fragrance  unto  Heaven. 

Hemans. 


THE    GEEMAN    NIGHT-WATCHMAN'S 

SONG. 

Hark,  while  I  sing  !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  Eiglit,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
Eight  souls  alone  from  death  were  kept, 
When  God  the  earth  with  deluge  swept : 
Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord  !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 


THE    GERMAN    NIGHT-WATCHMAN.  121 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 

The  hour  of  Nine,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 

Nine  lepers  cleansed  returned  not ; — 

Be  not  thy  blessings,  man,  forgot ! 

Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 

Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 

The  hour  of  Ten,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 

Ten  precepts  show  God's  holy  will ; — 

0,  may  we  prove  obedient  still ! 

Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 

Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord  !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 

The  hour  Eleven,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 

Eleven  apostles  remained  true  ; — 

May  we  be  like  that  faithful  few ! 

Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 

Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain.  ^ 

16 


122  THE    GERMAN    NIGHT-WATCHMAN. 

Lord !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  Ttvelve,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
Twelve  is  of  Time  the  boundary ; — 
Man,  think  upon  Eternity  ! 
Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  One,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
One  God  alone  reigns  over  all ; 
Nought  can  without  his  will  befall : 
Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 
Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 
The  hour  of  Ttvo,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 
Two  ways  to  walk  has  man  been  given  ; 
Teach  me  the  right, — the  path  to  heaven ! 


THE    GERMAN    NIGHT-WATCHMAN.  123 

Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 

Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord  !  through  thine  all  prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing  !   our  village  clock 

The  hour  of  Three,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 

Three  Gods  in  one,  exalted  most. 

The  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

Unless  the  Lord  to  guard  us  deign, 

Man  wakes  and  watches  all  in  vain. 

Lord  !  through  thine  all-prevailing  might, 
Do  thou  vouchsafe  us  a  good  night ! 

Hark,  while  I  sing !  our  village  clock 

The  hour  of  Four,  good  Sirs,  has  struck. 

Four  seasons  crown  the  farmer's  care  ; — 

Thy  heart  with  equal  toil  prepare  ! 

Up,  up  !  awake,  nor  slumber  on  ! 

The  morn  approaches,  night  is  gone ! 
Thank  God,  who  by  his  power  and  might 
Has  watched  and  kept  us  through  this  night ! 

Anon. 


124  CHURCH    MUSIC. 


CHURCH  MUSIC. 

Sweetest  of  sweets,  I  thank  you  :  when  displeasure 
Did  through  my  body  wound  my  mind, 

You  took  me  thence,  and  in  your  house  of  pleasure 
A  dainty  lodging  me  assigned. 

Now  I  in  you  without  a  body  move, 

Rising  and  falling  with  your  wings  : 
We  both  together  sweetly  live  and  love, 

Yet  say  sometimes,  God  help  poor  kings ! 

Comfort,  I'll  die  ;  for  if  you  post  from  me, 

Sure  I  shall  do  so,  and  much  more ; 
But  if  I  travel  in  your  company. 

You  know  the  way  to  heaven's  door. 

Herbert. 


ON    OPENING    A    PLACE    FOR    PRAYER.     125 


ON  OPENING  A  PLACE  FOR  SOCIAL 
PRAYER. 

Jesus  !  where'er  thy  people  meet, 
There  they  behold  thy  mercy-seat ; 
Where'er  they  seek  thee,  thou  art  found. 
And  every  place  ^s  hallowed  ground. 

For  thou,  within  no  walls  confined, 
Inhabitest  the  humble  mind ; 
Such  ever  bring  thee  where  they  come. 
And  going,  take  thee  to  their  home. 

Dear  Shepherd  of  thy  chosen  few ! 
Thy  former  mercies  here  renew  ; 
Here  to  our  waiting  hearts  proclaim 
The  sweetness  of  thy  saving  name. 

Here  may  we  prove  the  power  of  prayer, 
To  strengthen  faith,  and  sweeten  care ; 
To  teach  our  faint  desires  to  rise, 
And  bring  all  heaven  before  our  eyes. 


126     ON    OPENING    A    PLACE    FOR    PRAYER. 

Behold,  at  thy  commanding  word 
We  stretch  the  curtain  and  the  cord  ;  ^ 
Come  thou,  and  fill  this  wider  space, 
And  bless  us  with  a  large  increase. 

Lord,  we  are  few,  but  thou  art  near ; 
Nor  short  thine  arm,  nor  deaf  thine  ear ; 
Oh  rend  the  heavens,  come  quickly  down, 
And  make  a  thousand  hearts  thine  own. 

COWPER. 

i  Isaiah  64 :  2. 


PRAISE.  127 


PRAISE. 

King  of  glory,  King  of  peace, 

I  will  love  thee ; 
And,  that  love  may  never  cease, 

I  will  move  thee. 

Thou  hast  granted  my  request ; 

Thou  hast  heard  me  : 
Thou  didst  note  my  working  breast ; 

Thou  hast  spared  me. 

"Wherefore  with  my  utmost  art 

I  will  sing  thee. 
And  the  cream  of  all  my  heart 

I  will  bring  thee. 

Though  my  sins  against  me  cried, 
Thou  didst  clear  me  ; 

And  alone,  when  they  replied, 
Thou  didst  hear  me. 


128  PRAISE. 

Seven  whole  clays,  not  one  in  seven, 

I  will  praise  thee  : 
In  my  heart,  though  not  in  heaven, 

I  can  raise  thee. 

Thou  grew'st  soft  and  moist  with  tears, 

Thou  relentedst ; 
And,  when  Justice  called  for  fears, 

Thou  dissentedst. 

Small  it  is,  in  this  poor  sort 

To  enrol  thee  : 
Even  eternity  is  too  short 

To  extol  thee 

Heebert. 


THE    END. 


HEARS  b  DDS£NB£RY,  STEEE0TYPER8.  C.  SHERMAN  &  SON,  PRINTERS. 


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